Fourteen Months
by unfortunatelyme
Summary: Tomorrow, my best friend comes home. Tomorrow, I can begin to repair the only relationship that's ever mattered. Unfortunately, I feel that after tomorrow, things will never be the same. Brittana.
1. Chapter 1

Do you ever stop to think about your life, your choices, and the effect other people have on both? Like who you'd be if someone didn't appear one day. Or if you didn't make just one choice, how the world would be an entirely different place? I do. At least I have, every day for the past fourteen months.

It all started the June before senior year. Lord Tubbington came down with what I thought to be your basic feline summer cold. Only, he didn't get any better. It was a sickness unlike anything I'd ever seen, and I practically won that game show for us freshman year. Like any decent pet owner, I aced the section on animal (cat) ailments. But this...this. I couldn't put a finger on. And it terrified the hell out of me.

Santana went with me to the animal hospital. She let me sleep on her shoulder and even followed me to the bathroom when I refused to unlink our pinkies.

When the doctor muttered, "cancer", she let me cry. "I should've made him quit smoking sooner," was all I kept saying. She petted my head. "Don't worry, Britt. Tubbs isn't going anywhere."

* * *

Unfortunately, cancer caused Lord Tubbington a great deal of pain. When the doctor gave us a prescription to fill, it was more expensive than anything I could handle. Santana offered up the money she'd been saving for summer, but it still wasn't enough. I cried again. "We'll get jobs, both of us. Lord Tubbington will be better before you know it," Santana explained.

My mom, sipping her foul-smelling water, eventually added, "No sense in that. I reckon the animal's got a month left."

Whenever my mom talked funny like that, Santana would just shake her head. She didn't listen to what my mom said, and suggested I didn't either. I should've known something was wrong, though. Santana never referred to Lord Tubbington by his full name.

* * *

Sometimes I thought my mom was a psychic, but I wished Santana was, instead. It was only three weeks before Lord Tubbington was in terrible shape. Getting jobs while simultaneously doing Cheerios proved impossible, so I knew he was in always in excruciating pain.

We were in my bedroom after school when I suggested going to Dave Karofsky's party.

"Are you sure? I mean, with Tubbs's health."

Truthfully, I was completely bummed by it all. I wanted something, anything, to take my mind away from Lord Tubbington and cancer's cancerous ways. Karofsky's party was just the place.

Santana put on her skeptical face, but nodded anyway, as if she were trying to convince herself. "Whatever helps. I trust you, B."

* * *

The party wasn't anything special. Beer, music. Santana vowed to let me have fun and she'd drive us both home. So I did. After about my fourth cup of whatever it was, I knew I'd passed my personal limit.

"Santana." I poked her on the shoulder blade. "Santana." No response. "Santana. Santana. Santana." She eventually turned around and it wasn't even Santana. The girl, however, was helpful enough to point across the room, where Puck and the real Santana talked.

She immediately turned when I approached the pair. "What's wrong?" she asked before I even knew there was an issue. Puck tried to resume their conversation before she snapped, "Fuck off, Puckerman."

"Why does she drink it out of a water bottle?" Santana's eyebrows cowered in and a mist invaded her dark eyes. I continued, "I always thought it was just really hot water. But it's the same stuff we had tonight." I even felt drunk trying to escape all of that.

"She's just sad, B," is all she gave me. Then, "Kind of like you are with Lord Tubbington."

I nodded, not wanting to ask why she was so sad purely because I was afraid that I might be the cause. So I hugged Santana and used her as a balance to turn myself toward the dance floor. She grabbed my arm for a second, pleading me with her eyes. "Stay at my house tonight?"

I smiled because I loved spending the night with Santana, snuggled on her massive bed. I smiled because I loved feeling safe from nothing in particular- just safe. I smiled because I loved Santana just so, so much. She smiled because she knew.

* * *

The rest of the night's details are fuzzy, but I'll tell you what I've been told.

Apparently, I didn't go to dance. Instead, I wandered outside without telling Santana and she freaked. In fact, she cut the stereo off and blocked the door, threatening to go 'All Lima Heights' on anyone who left before I was found. Six minutes later, someone spotted me in the passenger side of Santana's Jeep, the door wide open.

I vaguely remember waking up to blue lights. "Honestly, officer, I'm just trying to get my drunk friend home." It was Santana's voice.

The combination of loud voices and flashing lights caused a gurgle in my stomach, and I barely pushed the door open before vomiting everywhere. That was the last memory I have of the night at Karofsky's.

It wasn't until the next morning that I realized something was wrong. I was in my bed. Santana wasn't pressed into my back, her face nuzzled into my neck. She never let me stay alone after a party. So I struggled to find my phone and call. Once. Twice. Seventeen times. No answer.

I walked the four miles to her house. Four knocks and no answer. I threw up on the rose bush because I know how much Santana hates it. Even after I made it home and asked my mom if she'd heard from my best friend, she just cackled at me and dozed off. Santana had disappeared.

* * *

It took the rest of summer and frantic searching for any answers to surface. I'd caught Santana's mom once in the grocery store, and when she refused to speak with me, I assumed Santana wasn't dead. As for the answers to the multitudes of questions that everyone around me refused to address, something only popped up at the police station. I'd gone to turn in Lord Tubbington for trying to sell my iPod for drugs. He was a sick cat, but that's no exception.

A scruffy man approached me and asked, "Finally feeling better, boozy?"

"No, no. I'm Brittany," I tried explaining.

He smiled. "Don't remember, huh?" I shook my head. "You should be leary of the company you keep, child. A friend's bad habits become your problems."

At this point, I was thoroughly confused. The man took this as permission to recap what I'd failed to recall. (And this is to make an extremely long story short.)

When I puked, the cop came to my side to assist me. I leaned forward, revealing a bag of twenty or so pills underneath my ass. I laughed and repeated that they were for Lord Tubbington- his medicine. Upon further inspection, they turned out to be Percocet. Santana claimed them for herself. I got dropped off at home, she went to jail.

The police officer finished with, "We gave her the option to say you bought them, and claim you weren't of right mind doing so. No disrespect, but you were talking about some animal's meds. I only assumed."

I nodded, trying my best to process all of the new information without breaking down. "She just said you were too smart to do anything that stupid."

"Well, where is she?" I finally choked out.

He walked me to a desk and jotted down an address and a phone number. "Might want to call and get her information. Visitation hours."

I didn't even thank him as I sprinted outside and dialed the number.

* * *

I wasn't allowed to visit for another three weeks. (Evidently, Santana had gotten into some trouble.)

The building was terrifying. White walls. Rusted, white bars. Loud buzzers that signaled the oncoming screech of steel against steel.

Person after person filed in, clanking with shackled wrists. Santana was last in line, clad in a not-so flattering orange jumpsuit. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she didn't look up until sitting down.

"You're a hard person to find," I said, hoping to elicit a smile from the other side of the glass.

Instead, she just readjusted her connected wrists, propping onto an elbow. "I knew it wouldn't take you long."

I felt something catch in my throat; a tight knot wound in my chest. Santana knew what was about to follow, and she shook her head. I eventually choked, "I'm sorry. For all of this."

She shrugged. Every movement seemed distant. Cold. Unlike my best friend. "I need a favor," she commanded almost out-of-the-blue.

"Of course. Anything at all."

"Don't come back," she spat. It felt like my heart was being slowly, painfully removed.

She started shuffling at the metal table, as if she were about to leave. "I love you, Santana." I felt sheepish for saying it in this context. So late.

Something appeared in her features. Pain. Sorrow. Guilt. She looked ten years older, and it killed me because I was completely helpless in helping her. A glimmer of hope finally flickered across her face within a smile, right before the expression re-hardened.

"Of course," she muttered just before hanging up and shuffling out.

* * *

All of this began fourteen months ago. I haven't seen my best friend in one year. And she'll be out tomorrow. I know this because I've been marking the days on a calendar, not because he mother's been any help in the process.

I let it sink in again. Tomorrow, my best friend comes home. Tomorrow, I can begin to repair the only relationship I've ever valued. Unfortunately, I feel that after tomorrow, things will never be the same.


	2. Chapter 2

Last year, when I was preparing all of my supplies for the first day of junior year, the world came crashing down. And I swear that on Lord Tubbington's grave. Amidst my various pens, papers, folders, and a fresh box of Crayons, time seemed to stop. The painful realization that Santana wasn't going to be walk with me the next morning; the thought of having no one to explain my schedule to me; the mere fact that the locker to my left would be filled with a stranger's belongings- all of it hit me like a ton of bricks. I leaned against my bed and wrote her a letter in bold red Crayon. Tears spilled onto the page and every weekly letter after that.

I felt guilty for writing her because Santana didn't seem like she wanted to hear from me and I made a promise and if there's one thing Brittany S. Pierce isn't- it's a liar. But she didn't want me going to physically see her. Santana said nothing about writing.

So I wrote. And I wrote some more. I wrote into the early hours of morning and only stopped when my hand started cramping. Every ounce of me went into those letters. I kept her up to date with any little bit of news from McKinley. Just so she'd know how little she was really missing. Just so she wouldn't hate me for having her life as a teenager put on hold. Santana didn't once respond, but I imagine that it's difficult to formulate a response to what's being served in the cafeteria.

* * *

The routine of high school proves to be a relatively unchanging process. Roam through the hallways, attend class, eat your lunch, and go home. Repeat.

Today is no different than any other. I struggled this morning with my Cheerios uniform, simply because the allure of wearing it every day for the next nine months is nonexistent. Even walking to school this morning was something of an out-of-body experience. I couldn't keep my mind from Santana. Was she going to be at school? How was I going to get from class to class without the special map she always made for the first day? Every so often, a ghost-like feeling of her pinkie linked with mine hits me. If last year was a struggle, I imagine this one to be no different.

I make a pit stop by our neighbor's rose bush and keel over, puking for what feels like a year. Maybe it's the uncertainty. Maybe it's the small pill my mother gave me this morning. She said it would calm my nerves. Honestly, though, I've never felt so tense before.

* * *

It's not halfway through the day that I realize Santana isn't here. She would've caught me and said something by now, right? Regardless, I'm keeping my eyes peeled, just in case I'm not paying good enough attention.

* * *

In glee practice is when I see it. The shadow of a petite frame and long, flowing hair passing the choir room door. I practically sprint from my chair and across the room, flinging the wooden door open. The hallway's silent. Empty. Devoid of anyone, let alone Santana.

When I turn around, twenty very confused eyes are glued on me. "Did you guys not see her? Santana. She walked right by the door!" I'm practically pleading, as if by convincing them I can convince myself that it wasn't a figment of my imagination.

Mr. Schuester places an awkward hand on my shoulder. "Brittany, why don't we pay a visit to Ms. Pillsbury?"

* * *

The counselor's office is covered wall-to-wall in pamphlets. Topics ranging from losing your virginity to picking out colleges. It reeks of hand sanitizer and disinfectant wipes. No wonder Ms. Pillsbury acts so fidgety all the time. I would too if I was trapped in this place every day.

"Mr. Schuester tells me that you're having issues concentrating in class," she says. "Why is this?"

"Why is this what?"

She's fumbling with another pile of brochures, stacking and restacking them so the corners are aligned. "Allow me to rephrase. You're running through class, making false claims. It's becoming a bit of a disturbance to the other students. You want the glee club to do well this year, right?"

"Of course I do. It's just… Santana walked by the door, like, four times during practice. She obviously wants to come back and help us win, and I want her to, also."

Now Ms. Pillsbury is giving me the same look she did when I kept that pet bird in my locker. "She's unenrolled, Brittany. Dropped out sometime last year." It's almost dismissive, the way she explains.

I'm the confused one now, involuntarily shaking my head. No, no. She's wrong. Santana always talked about going to college and getting out of Lima. There's no way she'd ever do such a dumb thing.

It takes a moment to hit me. A ray of sunshine amidst the thunderous information Ms. Pillsbury's given me. Santana always comes back. Ever since we were little kids, she always has…

_We were about eight or so, playing hide n' seek at recess. The other kids always had this habit of forgetting about me, or they thought it was funny to watch me walk in an hour after the bell rang, dripping in sweat from standing still for so long. _

_"You're just too good at this game, Britt. They're jealous because you always win," Santana would explain._

_ Regardless, she would always follow me to where I hid, make sure I got situated, and take off to her own spot. Even if it meant she got found first. And when the bell rang, she'd always come back and get me._

_ Or the one time I went with my mom to the mall. She must've forgotten that I was with her, because she wandered off, leaving me alone in the masses. I was so freaked out about not having a ride home that I called Santana. _

_ She was almost out breath reaching me. "Where'd she go, Britt?"_

_ I didn't know, so I just pointed in a general direction. Santana got that math-problem look on her face. "Wait right here. I'm going to get some help, and I'll be right back." And then she approached a group of security guards. It took about two hours to find my mom asleep in a bathroom stall, but Santana came back to my booth in the food court, bearing a smile. We went to her house and ate chocolate chip cookie dough until four in the morning._

That's the thing about her. About us, really. We don't lie to each other, and we always come back. _Santana always comes back._

* * *

It's been an entire week and there's still no sign of her. My mom is still awake when I get home, so I seek rare motherly advice. "Has it crossed your mind that maybe this girlfriend of yours doesn't want to be found?"

"She's not my girlfriend," I retort. "And of course she wants to be found." The thought of hide n' seek flashes through my head. I was always the best hider, not so much as the seeker. "I'm just sad, I guess." Mom hands me her water bottle, urging me on. I take two of the largest gulps I can manage, almost spitting the burning liquid out immediately.

* * *

Thursday, after school, I decide to do some searching of my own. In the one place she's bound to be.

_Rap, rap, rap._ I've already knocked seven times, but no answer. Mrs. Lopez's Prius is in the driveway, so I know she's home. And I know she's not deaf, so..

The curtains begin shuffling. Then a click of the door. Two eyes cut through the inch of darkness emitted from the door and door frame.

"Um, hi, Mrs. Lopez. Is Santana home?" I finally ask.

"Go home, Brittany," is she says before the door's forced shut.

What's with all the secrecy? Why won't anybody just tell me where Santana is? I consider the options, and decide that more can be done. Hopping the fence into their backyard, like I've done so many times before, I shimmy myself up the drain pipe and onto the roof. "It's the safest place in the world," Santana once said. Whenever I'd have nightmares late into the night, and she was already asleep, I'd walk over and climb through her permanently-unlocked window. Unfortunately, upon quick inspection, the room is barren, mind a sole wooden box that lies in the window sill.

I fidget with the window, and it's locked as well. Where is all of Santana's stuff? Maybe she's moved to a downstairs room, or maybe she isn't living in the house at all. I lay down on the hot, afternoon roofing and stare into the sky, like Santana and I have done so many times before. Trying to remember what it felt like to be so safe, so secure. We'd just lay and talk about anything, really. Sometimes we'd keep quiet, enjoying the calm afforded by nighttime. I shut my eyes hard, imagining that Santana's here with me. For a moment, it feels as if she really is.

When I wake up, it's completely dark out. All is silent. My phone reads 3:34 a.m., so I grab my water bottle and climb back down the pipe. Not before taking one final look into her old bedroom, where the box on the window sill has disappeared.

* * *

My Cheerios water bottle has become my closest companion, concealing the harsh liquid that numbs all pain from Santana's absence.

I opt to keep my mouth shut in fear of being deemed crazy. Or simply because these days, I don't feel like saying much. I'm mindlessly wandering through rows of lockers instead of going to geometry, when Artie wheels up and stops me.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "You've seem out of it lately."

"I'm great," I mumble, feeling a light slur slip out.

"Hey," he says, grabbing my arm. "I know it's tough, losing someone you care about. She's in pain, too, you know. Hell, when she came in last week to speak with Principal Figgins, her eyes were all puffy. I've never seen Santana look so distraught."

Anger wells in my chest. Betrayal. I barely register Artie's calls as I storm to Principal Figgins' office, where he and Ms. Pillsbury are both seated, discussing something. When I throw the door open, it takes everything I have to keep upright and not fall flat on my face. "She came to see you?! Where is she?" I demand. "Tell me right now why Santana isn't in school, and why no one will tell me where she's gone!"

Shock registers on both of their faces. It catches me off guard, too. The tone and volume of my voice. Principal Figgins eventually stands up from behind his desk. "There is no need to shout, Ms. Pierce."

Ms. Pillsbury chimes in, clearly trying to keep the peace. "There are things that you don't understand right now, and-"

"All that I understand right now is that _you_ have been lying to me!" My face burns, and I feel like I might hyperventilate.

"You're clearly upset. Why don't you go home and cool down? We'll speak tomorrow," is all Principal Figgins gives me. Before I can get another word out, he says, "Go home, Brittany."

* * *

I don't, though. I refuse to. Why is everyone lying to me? Keeping things from me? All I want- all I _need_- is a simple answer to her whereabouts. Just to know that my best friend's safe. And since no one wants to tell me, I decide to find out for myself.

The first three neighborhoods I hit are nicer, better-off areas. Upscale houses, similar to the one Santana lived in before. When I knock on a door and she doesn't answer, I give them a simple, "Excuse me. Wrong house" and head to the next. After hours of walking, knocking on doors, and walking some more, my water bottle is running on empty. In a last ditch effort, I visit a handful of apartment complexes, realizing that Santana probably wouldn't be able to afford a house on her own.

No luck at Lima Community Apartments or Piney Ridge Town Homes. Still, though. Even they're too high-price for an eighteen-year-old. I'm about to keel over from exhaustion when it hits me: Lima Heights. How could I have been so stupid? Of course she'll be there. It's run down, but affordable. Besides, Santana used to go on and on about living there with her abuela when she was little. I just hope that nobody calls me a garbage face when I knock on their doors.

About two buildings in, and long after I've abandoned excusing myself from knocking on the wrong door, an older woman answers. She looks to be sixty or so. It's dark out, but nothing can conceal the fact that she dons the same blue hair Coach Sylvester made us wear for a Katy Perry routine.

I'm desperate at this point. "I'm looking for a friend of mine that lives around here. Short, Latina, long brown hair, and brown eyes?"

The woman appears to register something, but replies, "Go home, girl. It's not safe at this hour." She closes the door just like Mrs. Lopez did, and it takes everything in me not to break into sobs.

There's a comfortable-looking curb, so I decide for a break and lean against a trashcan that reeks. I don't care- I _can't_ care. Not when Santana's still out there. It soon becomes a struggle staying awake, or better yet, lulling between sobriety and utter drunkenness. I'm very aware of my position in that matter, sipping the last few drops from my water bottle. No wonder Mom drinks this stuff all of the time. Sure, it makes walking a bit difficult, but sleeping is so much easier. In fact, you can do it anywhere. Like right here, for instance. And since sleep is hard to come by when your mind is constantly flooded with questions, I'm desperate for any help I can get.

In a moment, everything gets hazier, and I'm having trouble standing up. The darkness is more than settled in, and I can barely make out an orange ball that stands out against the elements. There's a silhouette behind the ball, inching closer. The last thing I remember is being lifted from the ground.

* * *

Lost. I am completely and utterly lost. Actually, I'm sprawled out in a rather comfortable bed, but it's not mine. And that terrifies the hell out of me.

My eyes scour the bedroom, head pounding, and search for a way out. Cardboard boxes litter the area, but other than that, there's nothing. I peek out a lone window, hopeful that I can escape through, only to realize this is a third-floor apartment. It's higher than any cheer pyramid I've been hoisted onto.

A baseball bat is the only thing that stands out against the clutter, so I grab it from beside the door. Faint noises creep from down the hall. Humming. Sizzling. And a barely audible voice, singing. I'm about to round the corner and start swinging violently when the singing stops, and a voice calls out, "Easy, Babe Ruth. You really shouldn't make a habit of passing out in unfamiliar places."

My heart skips a beat. It seems that I've found Santana.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **

**Taeblancaxoxo: I most certainly appreciate it.**

**bagel419: Firstly, thanks for such an in-depth review. Secondly, I apologize for any and all ambiguity surrounding what Brittany knows/doesn't know. As a writer, I'm garbage at proofing my work. (It's my cross to bear, lol.) This is an on-the-fly project, and I hope that fact doesn't bite me in the ass. Below is a rough summary of what's happened so far, and I hope it helps to clear up any questions or concerns. Again, thanks for the valuable feedback.**

**- Chapter 1: Santana takes the fall for Brittany's screw-up and goes to jail. Ends with the day before senior year, which is the day Santana is released.**

**- Chapter 2: (This is where I can see the confusion taking place. After a proofreading, even I was confused. Sorry.) Brittany knows Santana is being released, and halfway expects to see her at school. When she doesn't, she goes searching for answers of her whereabouts. Finds that she's lost Santana again. Passes out and wakes up in Santana's apartment.**

* * *

I don't know what I expected our reunion to be like. Tears, yes. Maybe a hug. An abundance of "I'm sorry"s. But nothing like this. So impersonal, so removed. When Santana used to say, "Expectation breeds disappointment", it never really clicked with me. Not until now. So when she commands me to sit down and doesn't bother to look up, it becomes painfully clear that this isn't the Santana I last spoke with at Karofsky's party. She's transformed into the ghost that haunted me for fourteen months.

"Coffee and aspirin are on the table," she says, focusing on flipping and piling pancakes onto a plate.

I'm tentative in sitting, afraid that the chair might break. The other one doesn't look any sturdier. Everything here is so run down. Decrepit. Bare and plain, much like the bedroom. A couch makes up the entire furniture ensemble in her living room. It's torn and stained; what someone else's garbage looks like. Honestly, it fits right in with this place.

Santana eventually joins me at the table, setting a plate stacked high with pancakes in front of me. I don't dare speak to her. Hell, I'm too afraid to make eye contact. The harshness in her voice. An extra twinge of rasp in it, as if she's picked… Santana lights a cigarette. _As if Santana's picked up a smoking habit._

I devour the pancakes in silence. They're my favorite. Plain with Lucky Charms inside. A small flicker of warmth fills my chest at the simple gesture. It's proof enough that Santana hasn't totally forgotten about me. Billows of smoke start flowing from the table, well into the kitchen. My eyes follow the trail, noting just how little food there is. I feel guilty, considering my breakfast is considered a feast by her current standards. Within a few agonizing minutes, Santana puts her cigarette out underneath the table, clears her throat, and breaches the territory I've been fearful of.

"Care to explain why I found you perched underneath my neighbor's staircase?"

"Not really," I mumble, dropping my fork onto the plate. For some reason, "I just wanted to see my best friend" doesn't seem like an acceptable answer. Judging by her forwardness in the matter, I assume this conversation will be nothing more than a game of twenty questions, and hangovers don't afford that kind of patience.

"And _this_," she starts, slamming my Cheerios bottle on the table. "This is a sure-fire way to fuck your life up."

Fourteen months; 427 days. And this is the conversation I've been waiting for. "Care to explain why you're acting like my mother?" I finally mock.

Santana laughs the condescending laugh I'd never expect from her. Not directed toward me, at least. She maintains an eerily calm persona, though. "Care to explain why you're acting like such a child? Besides, I highly doubt your mom's ever showed this much concern. Kind of hard to with a bottle permanently attached to your mouth."

I should be offended. I should be offended as all hell. But when I look up to continue arguing, Santana catches me. Her appearance, actually. The two previously beautiful, brown eyes are baggy and sunken. Like she hasn't slept in a week. She's bone thin. Much skinnier than she used to be, if that's possible. Someone defeated. A victim of time and circumstance. Someone carrying a heavy load. A load far heavier than a mother who sleeps all the time.

"I was worried about you. That's all. When you didn't show up for school, and no one would tell me where you went. Not Mr. Schuester. Not Ms. Pillsbury. I even went to your house and-"

"Don't go there," she interjects. Her eyes are wide now, as if I've struck some kind of emotional cord.

"Everyone's been ordering me around recently. 'Go home, Brittany.' 'Don't go there.' Tell me: what exactly _am_ I allowed to do, Santana? Because I'm trying. I really am."

I've apparently lost Santana's attention, because she shuffles from the table and into the bedroom, returning with a small wooden box. "You're welcome to get the hell out of my life," she says, forcing the box into my arms.

This is nothing at all how I imagine us to be reunited. A quick breakfast plagued with bickering; being ushered out. And this is definitely not the Santana I remember. Confrontational. Hostile. The boundaries are unclear. I'm not sure which comments will or won't get me hit. Prepared for what may come, I muster a courageous, "No."

She opens the door and points outside. "Out. Now."

"Come back to school."

"Out," she repeats. More forcibly this time.

I'm desperate at this point. If only to spend a few more seconds in her presence. "Look. You don't have to come back to Cheerios or glee club- just school. Reenroll and you won't have to worry about me anymore. Graduate. I won't say a single word to you ever again."

That look penetrates her features again. The look when people have to choose between two flavors of ice cream, so they stand and mull over the options. Her body slacks against the door frame before she nods and says, "Deal."

I walk furiously, too hurt and too close to crying to stick around any longer. As I begin on the stairs, Santana calls out to me one last time. And if it's her mission to break my heart, then she's succeeding. Because what falls out of her mouth cuts me deeper than I ever could've imagined.

"No one told you where I went because I asked them not to. I didn't want to see you."

* * *

You know that saying about people being so lost that all they want is someone to find them? Bullshit. Finding people only results in being kicked out of their apartment, carrying a box of unopened letters.

Week after week, putting myself out there. For what? To be reminded that Santana doesn't care, and hasn't cared for a long time? At this point, what Artie said last year makes sense. About me being stupid. I'd have to be to think Santana could ever forgive, let alone love me again.

And now she's here to remind me every day. Her worn, fragile presence- the image of my shortcomings.

Ms. Pillsbury seems particularly excited with Santana's return to McKinley. While I'm peeking into Principal Figgins's office, watching as Santana signs the necessary papers for reenrollment, a breathe tickles the back of my arm. It breaks me from nerve-induced trance. "I don't know what you did, Brittany, but it was great work," Ms. Pillsbury whispers.

Despite the falling out, I refuse to take anything from the grandeur of her return. "She did it all by herself. I just gave the push." It hurts to say, because I knew that with every push, she's slowly pulling away.

* * *

If I felt crazy for imagining Santana on the first day of school, then I'm convinced I far exceeded crazy. Her voice has infiltrated my thoughts. Old conversations replay. The fight. Sometimes I script the things I'll say to her if we ever speak again.

With less to do after school, I'm trying to spend more time with my mom. You know, keep loved ones close. Since, it appears, love has become such a fragile thing. Where Mom used to get mad if I bugged her in the evenings, she invites me to sit in the living room and drink from our respective water bottles. There's never anything to talk about, so we just sit until we fall asleep.

Tonight, when her eyes begin to close and pop open, close and pop open, like a baby fighting a nap, I ask my mom, "Do you ever hear voices? Like Dad's talking in your head?"

She swallows and looks to the ceiling. I haven't seen my mother show this kind of emotion since his funeral. And I was eight then. She takes a deep breath before standing up. "Your father's gone, Brittany." That's it. My mother sleeps in her old bedroom for the first time in almost ten years.

* * *

The days are beginning to run together, it feels. Every morning it's the same routine. Get up and shower, depending on if the hot water heater feels like working. Fix my Cheerios bottle, and follows Mom's advice. Two swallows to get the coughing out of my system. Then start the trek to school.

My stomach grumbles the entire way there and all through first period. I make a mental note to use what's left of my cash to buy breakfast tomorrow. Mom keeps forgetting to go grocery shopping, and I'm afraid she's already spent this month's money. At least Coach Sylvester will be proud that I'm keeping in such good shape.

* * *

Santana isn't back on the Cheerios. In fact, they won't let her come back to glee club, even if she wants to. Mr. Schuester tells me she has to take remedial classes to make up for all of the time missed. And work twice as hard if she wants to graduate this year.

It's a weird concept, however, because Santana spends every Tuesday and Thursday in Ms. Pillsbury's office. Sometimes I stand and watch her through the glass, playing card games at one of those fold-up tables. It's confusing and difficult to grasp as she moves cards from pile to pile. She seems pleased when she leans back against the chair, admiring the work, collects, and deals the cards once more.

Santana never catches me staring because I duck whenever her attention shifts my way. It's not like I'm violating the terms of our agreement (because I'm not). I just can't help to wonder if she knows I'm out here. I can't help but to feel that if I were to stand tall, not flinch when she looks my way, Santana would be able to see right through me.

* * *

Mom and I are back on good terms. At least I think we are. She brings home weird stuff for us to do together. Tonight, it's a puzzle. A 500-piece picture of the Eiffel Tower. We sit and work in silence, as always. Sometimes I make small talk, which doesn't upset her as long as I don't mention Dad. Or Santana, for that matter. Whenever I mention her, Mom just huffs and readjusts in her chair.

Tonight, I have a little too much and knock pieces off of the table, which isn't big enough for the puzzle anyway. Then I try and force pieces into the wrong slots. All honest mistakes. But Mom gets really agitated. Berates me for not handling the liquor and demands I fix the mess. A thought pops in my head while she yells. Santana's always been a puzzle. Hard to understand in increments. Beautiful in its entirety.

It's my fault her pieces are mixed up, and it's my job to put them back together.

* * *

Lunch time used to be my favorite part of the day. However, it's not so much fun when you don't actually have a lunch.

Sometimes I'll pick food off of Mercedes or Kurt's plates, but that's the extent of it. And since Mr. Schuester has placed funky purple pianos all over the school, everyone spends a lot of their time quietly discussing how to get out of the assignment.

"It's too much pressure," Artie says.

Kurt chimes in, "I agree. That is like wearing a red dress to a bull fight."

Their voices begin to fade. I just sit at the end of the table, watching Santana in the corner, feeling slightly better after last night's puzzle revelation. She eats quicker than anyone I've ever seen. Like the food is going to be taken at away at any moment. Every time someone enters the cafeteria, and the door slams shut, she practically jumps out of her skin. Just a handful of items added to the list of issues Brittany has caused Santana.

Karofsky strolls past Santana and leans down to whisper something. Seconds pass. No reaction. I release the breath I've been holding. That should've been the start of World War III, and she did nothing. But his attention directs toward me. Artie wheels away, Kurt and Mercedes leave to hunt for tater tots, and everyone else decides to duck out before Mr. Schuester shows up. I'm alone. Karofsky leans on the table, wearing a smirk I know Santana wishes she could smack off.

"I'm having a little soiree at my place this Friday. Feel like passing through?"

I shake my head violently, hoping to get the point across that I don't exactly go to parties anymore. Every day's a party at my house. Just less people and fewer tears. Karofsky doesn't get the hint, apparently, because he presses on. "Why not? You can even bring those glee friends of yours. It'll be a slushie-free zone. Promise."

"Don't feel like it," I mutter, suddenly feeling queasy. And since puking in the cafeteria isn't on my list of things to do, I quickly jump from the table, turning on my heel away from the football player. When he grabs my forearm is when I finally come to understand the phrase, "All hell breaking loose".

A tray violently smacks into the rear of Karofsky's head, sending him toppling to the ground. I watch Santana, breathless, as she collects herself before saying, "Don't. Fuck. With. Her." It's that scary-calm voice again.

When the cafeteria doors fly open, Santana must realize what's about to happen, because she immediately drops the tray and places both hands behind her head. It's confusing until Officer Porter, the new security guard that came with Santana's return to school, places his forearm behind her shoulder blades and shoves Santana against the wall. He places a firm grip on the back of her head and they're gone in a flash.

* * *

I'm panicking. If another student had hit Karofsky, the situation would be handled differently. I know that for a fact. Unfortunately, whatever I say in Santana's defense is null. No one's going to believe me. So I grab Dave's arm, force him up, and march us to Principal Figgins's doors.

"This is _your_ fault," I spit, anger coursing through my veins. "Go in there and make it right."

Karofsky curls his nose with every word that falls from my mouth. I stop, remembering the reason I didn't talk to begin with. A light bulb must go off, because his face lights up. Pursed lips turn into a sneer. "What's in it for me?" he asks.

Through the glass I can see Principal Figgins on the phone. Time's running short, that's for certain. Officer Porter has finally let go of Santana's hands, and she's alternating between rubbing her wrists and scribbling imaginary letters into her right hand. Guilt floods my chest. I can only imagine what bad memories are invading Santana's mind right now.

I can't go to Karofsky's party this weekend. I just can't. There's too much pain. I opt for the next best thing when it comes to high school guys. Something I'm good at. "Sex. I'll sleep with you."

* * *

Karofsky's hands wildly gesticulate and convince Principal Figgins to put the phone down. Hell, even I'm convinced, and the only words I've heard are "stage" and "hit". Santana doesn't once look up. Instead, she keeps alternating between the scribbling and wrist-rubbing.

The puzzle. The puzzle. The puzzle. I keep the two words circulating in my mind. It's my fault that all of the pieces are mixed up, and it's my job to put them back together.

When Dave finally exits the office, he's bearing a triumphant grin. Pure elation replaces the guilt the in my chest. That is, until Karofsky leans into my ear and whispers a sly, "My place. Ten o'clock."


	4. Chapter 4

**_Brittana-Forever-LOVE:_ Thank you so very much for the kind words. Trust me, you won't have to think about it for much longer. Lol.**

**And to the two guests: Thanks for your words as well.**

**A/N: I know things are progressing slowly, but things will pick up soon enough. You have my word. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Glee.**

* * *

_"I've noticed that it takes twenty or so times before the feeling of accomplishment really kicks in." _ Santana told me that once during sophomore year. It makes sense. Because sixteen guys into my list- I feel absolutely nothing. Actually, it's worse than nothing. It's like negative nothing. If that's possible.

It's a good thing that feelings aren't necessary. (Santana taught me that, too.) Because after the cafeteria debacle, and after the shortest sex I've ever endured, word got around about me and Karofsky. I didn't think he really had any friends, but people were quick to listen. Soon enough, everyone was picking at Santana. Making snide remarks. Passing the occasional quip. The kind of stuff she used to be good at. Anything to get a rise out of her.

Santana kept her cool, but everyone's got a breaking point. The only difference being: if Santana snaps, she has more to lose.

So I'm helping to rearrange the pieces of this mess, too. The same guys who follow Karofsky's advice are easily dissuaded the same way he was. There's a method to the madness, obviously. No cars. No cuddling. And no more than three guys in a week. If the math works out, no one will bug Santana until graduation.

* * *

The weather man says we're in for a full week of rain. I'm rummaging through cabinets, trying to find the drip bowl that catches a continuous leak in my bedroom. We always keep it right above the microwave. Always. Mom says I'll lose it, otherwise. I just never thought I'd lose the microwave, too.

When Mom walks in carrying two paper sacks that clank with each step she takes, I ask, "Microwave?"

"Sold it," she says.

"Why?"

"Surprise," she dismisses, filling both of our water bottles. This is what our recent conversations have transformed into. One word exchanges. The nights I come home late and she's still awake- no words. Just water bottles and silence.

The puzzle is nowhere near complete. It stares up from the coffee table. Tiny fragments of the tower base reflect our efforts.

* * *

The rain continues. Day after day. Long nights into morning. All of it's a bummer, really. These are the kind of days Santana and I would dedicate to Sweet Valley High.

I'm taking shelter underneath the football bleachers, waiting for the storm to let up, when a familiar voice rings out. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen." She's smoking a cigarette. As are the three girls that follow. "Seems like the duties of the Unholy Trinity are on your shoulders now."

"Hey Q," is all I say. I'm not trying to act too surprised with her appearance. Pink hair. Nose ring. She looks like the homeless guy I once brought home for dinner.

Quinn motions toward a raggedy couch. It reminds me of the one in Santana's apartment. "Come. Sit." I do. One of the girls offer me what resembles a cigarette, but I hesitate. _Oh, what the hell?_

This stuff. _This stuff._ Just…wow. Never have I felt so at ease about everything. School, my mother, the missing microwave (which I giggle about for thirty straight minutes). Santana doesn't once infiltrate my thoughts. It's great. Better than great, truthfully.

My stomach grumbles and I think about lunch. Have we missed it? I struggle to stand. Quinn laughs. "I'm starving," I say. More laughter.

"No rush, B. School let out an hour ago."

Oh shit. I ask for the day. "Wednesday," Nose Ring Girl replies.

I'm finally up and heading to Brett, the hockey captain's house when Quinn calls after me. "We're out here most days. Feel free to join anytime."

I smile. Sitting out here and not thinking about Santana is ten times easier than being in _there_, doing just the opposite.

* * *

It's odd- how many days humans can survive without food and liquids. "The fluids, they're most important," Mom explains every morning. She says that as long as our bottles are full, so are our spirits. I don't understand her thinking a lot of the time.

Her lesson makes sense soon enough. Basically, the less you have in your stomach, the less there is to throw up at three in the morning.

Today, though. Today's different. Everything's hazy, fading in and out of clarity. Getting to school is the most difficult. I arrive fifteen minutes after the bell, and even consider skipping with Quinn and her friends again. Maybe tomorrow. And the day after. Just so long as Santana is in my head, I can't be in here.

The attendance counter gradually distances itself with each step I take. It's a small, flickering light at the end of a narrowing tunnel. Individual items disappear from sight. A desk. A clock on the wall. I drag one final step before darkness takes over.

* * *

I always imagined the nurse's office to be something of a magical place. A land where the ill are quickly healed. Friendly people with friendly faces who tend to you every whim. Kind of like a hospital for kids at school who aren't dying. You can imagine my dismay at finding all of my theories disproven. Instead, the ill are merely students bored with Calculus class. And the friendly people with friendly faces are replaced with our old, bitter-looking school nurse. I don't bother asking her name.

Which isn't necessary, it seems, because her expression spares formalities. She's braced and ready for my awakening. "Took quite the plunge, didn't we?" I'm confused until my head develops a heartbeat. She turns and surfaces a lunch tray from the bed side. "Your friend brought this by. Eat," she orders. I avoid the obvious question with the even more obvious answer.

After several uncomfortable minutes, the meal's finished and instantly makes its reappearance. Nurse Lady nods, seeming to expect this, and shoves the garbage can beside me. Several more uncomfortable minutes of projectile vomiting follow.

When it seems that I'm done, she makes me chug a glass of water. Then another. I've had four glasses before she takes a clipboard, jots something down, and addresses me. "When's the last time you've eaten, Miss Pierce?" I shrug, knowing it's the honest answer. "That's what I thought. Miss Pierce, you're what we call an 'At-risk' situation. As in, you're so malnourished that it can't possibly be an eating disorder. It's just too extreme. Agree?" I remain still.

She continues. "But that's not my only concern. Or my main one, for that matter. Miss Pierce," she pauses, and it freaks me out- this 'Miss Pierce' business. Mom always says to avoid anyone who uses your last name. I think of our landlord. It all makes sense now.

The weight of my situation doesn't set in until she reaches behind, bringing forth a black box with a nozzle. She places it into my mouth and says, "Blow." It beeps. Nurse Lady nods her head.

"Your blood alcohol content is twice the legal limit for an adult, let alone a minor. Now, I had my suspicions earlier. Sweating profusely. Bloodshot eyes. Breath that reeked to the high heavens." I'm about to protest when she lifts a hand, silencing me once more. "But your friend- the one with the lunch- she said you were just too good for that. Too smart to do anything so reckless. Is this friend speaking correctly, or is she a liar?"

"The truth," I plead. "She's telling the truth."

"That's what I thought. Now get to class. And if I ever see you like this again Miss Pierce, your friend will not be able to get you out of it."

* * *

Pissed off. The only emotion I can register walking home. Why? After everything she's put me through. The signs. Every fucking mixed signal. How can she constantly ignore me; demand that I stay out of her life; and swoop in to save the day?

None of this is right. None of it's fair. _I'm_ supposed to help her. _I'm _supposed to right the wrongs of this past year. _Me._ Yet here she is, mending each of my blunders, and she won't utter a single fucking word.

I'm practically fuming by the time I get home. Surely enough, there's an older guy in our living room, holding what appears to be my TV. Are we being robbed?

"Are you in high school, by chance?" I ask. He shakes his head. I check my pocket calendar. The baby blue one with the unicorn. Nope. No Chubby Bald Guy on the list. And then Mom's stumbling into the room.

"You're home early," she says.

"It's 8:30," I explain. "At night."

"And you're early," she dismisses, directing Chubby Bald Guy. He nods, readjusts the load, and waddles outside. "Shouldn't you be with a boyfriend or something?"

I try to ignore her. "Is this the big surprise? You're giving our stuff away?"

"Brittany, honey," she slurs, staggering to me. "Brittany. Honey."

"Where's he taking my TV, Mom?" I ask.

"How do you feel about getting out of Lima? Hitting the road with Mom?"

I'm caught off guard with the question. "Where to?" I ask.

Chubby Bald Guy returns, placing a handful of small, green bills into my mother's hand. She whispers back and forth with him, acting as if I'm not in the room. When she turns around, she's forgotten our conversation. "Where to?" I repeat.

She gives a rare smile before saying, "Wherever you want, sweetheart."

* * *

I'm running. Out and away, pelts of rain slapping my face. Trying to clear any and all thought. It takes a moment for the chill of night to set in, but I'm not going back in. Not now. Is there anywhere to go? I turn and sprint, pushing until I reach the sign. Lima Heights Apartments.

Before my brain fully catches up, I'm on the same curb I was when Santana found me. Underneath the staircase, nestled into the garbage can. It blocks the howling wind, so I mind the stench. It's clear just how little running has done for me. Because my breathing picks up again, the realization of my mother's words choking me.

Moving. Away from Lima, McKinley, and my childhood. Leaving my father's house behind. Leaving Santana behind. It's all so random. So out of left field. Mom's never expressed any interest in leaving. She's always been content with the routine; with our mundane rituals. But moving? I never saw this coming. Now it's here, it's happening, and I can only stand by and watch.

My phone says two hours have passed. The rain doesn't change in pace, but nothing can hinder the clear sight I have of Santana's apartment. It's so late, and she's yet to come home. Honestly, I have no idea why I'm here. Will I say anything? Violate the terms of our agreement and tell her everything? How we're moving away, and we'll probably never see each other again, and how I was so stupid last year, and how I'm just _so, so_ sorry for everything I put her through. That I love her and always will. No. It's not the right time for that. It never is.

I sit and practice the conversation. _"Hey, Santana. Um, yeah. So, we're moving and I just wanted to come by and let you know and say goodbye and-"_.. I'm rambling. Santana hates it when I ramble. Another hour passes, and I'm getting up to brave the storm back home when I see her. Santana's climbing the staircase, opening her apartment door. And there's someone behind her. A girl. They're both laughing when they enter her apartment and the door slams shut.

* * *

School becomes the fog on a beautiful autumn morning. It's the white noise that no one bothers to hear. Pointless. Yet another reminder of Santana and how my efforts at reconciliation have failed.

So I'm going less and less. Instead, Quinn and her friends welcome me with open arms. We sit around all day. Sometimes talking, sometimes smoking. Anything to remove our minds from the hassles of everyday life. It's relaxing, and relaxation is exactly what I need. And since our hanging out is an everyday remedy for everyday life, I'm not surprised when Coach Sylvester visits us underneath the bleachers during Cheerios practice. "You're out, Brittany. For attendance. Or lack thereof." A hand extends and snatches the Cheerios bottle from mine. "You should be wetting yourself with shame," she scolds.

I'm marched to her office. Within seconds, a slip of paper is slapped on the desk. I look up from the resignation letter, too stoned and a little too tipsy for the intricacies of cursive writing. "Is the 'n' just half of an 'm'?"

Coach Sylvester says, "Just make an 'X'."

And this is the end of my cheerleading career. Glee club's next. It's appropriate that I cut all ties, considering the move. Details of which my Mom isn't being very clear. Every day I get home and there's more missing stuff. I realize that she's packing our things over time, instead of all at once. Which is smart, because packing in one fell swoop is both tiring and confusing. Today, when she gets home from the store and I get home from Stuart Miller's house, she pours our water bottles and pulls the puzzle out.

We sit on the floor and work. (The coffee table's already been moved.) It's about halfway finished, which is saying a lot. "Decided where you want us to go?" Mom asks in between sips.

I haven't really given it much thought, but somewhere warm would be nice. Much warmer than Ohio. "Florida?"

She smiles and nods. "Florida sounds great, honey."

* * *

As I head to the bleachers, fresh from telling Mr. Schuester that glee club's a waste of time, Ms. Pillsbury catches my arm. "Can we speak for a minute?"

We enter her office, and I'm afraid she's trying to recruit me back into glee club, but she seems nervous. More nervous than usual. Sanitize your hands, rub furiously, and sanitize them one more time nervous. "So I'm just going to cut to the chase with you, Brittany. Santana's not doing well."

"Is she sick?" I ask, remembering what the doctor told me so long ago with Lord Tubbington.

Ms. Pillsbury shakes her head and sanitizes again. "With school. Getting into the swing of being a teenager again. She doesn't talk. She's doing the bare minimum when it comes to the assignments. All she ever wants to do is sit at that table," Ms. Pillsbury gestures to the fold-up I've spied so many times before, "and play her little card games. We're worried. About the both of you, actually."

Now it makes sense. This isn't about Santana's well-being at all. This is some sick, roundabout way of making sure I come to class, and it's infuriating. I'm about to storm out when Ms. Pillsbury softens her eyes and barely says, "Please. She needs someone who can help her acclimate to her surroundings. Learn how to be in high school again." I realize how much I dislike Ms. Pillsbury. She's using some backhanded guilt method, merely because she knows I can't watch Santana fail.

So I mull it over. Mom's yet to say when we're leaving for Florida, but I know there isn't too much time. All of our furniture's gone. Moved. Waiting for us to follow. This might be my only opportunity to talk with Santana. Not like she wants to, though. I saw the girl at her apartment. There's a new best friend. Or girlfriend. Regardless, it would go a long way to smooth my conscience out. I nod, saying, "Only if you answer a few questions first. Regarding Santana. So I know what I'm getting into." After all, we're not the same people. Practically strangers.

Ms. Pillsbury retreats. "Well," she swallows. "Maybe that's for Santana to decide."

"Answer the questions or I don't help." She takes a minute to sanitize before nodding. "Why does she need a babysitter?" I ask. "Santana's a big girl."

"She's walking a thin line. Any violation of parole- a drop in grades, absence from school, disorderly conduct- would be reason enough to send her right back to jail. The slightest infraction and she's gone."

I nod. It explains the nervous behavior in Figgins's office. "Why isn't she living with her parents at home?"

"Emancipated. I don't know the details, but she did it sometime last year. Besides, she's eighteen now. An adult."

I laugh. What an explanation. Saying she's an adult, and yet here I am, supposed to help Santana act like a teenager again. The emancipation sounds familiar, though. Reminds me of an episode of One Tree Hill that we used to watch together. "Like Nathan Scott?" I ask. Ms. Pillsbury looks confused. Only Santana would understand, so I make a mental note to ask her.

"Okay, last question." I pause, suddenly nervous of learning the answer. "Why'd you pick me? Why not someone, anyone, else in the school? We're not exactly on the best of terms right now."

Across the desk, I watch Ms. Pillsbury's eyes widen for whatever reason. She's shuffling brochures now, stacking and restacking them, seeing that each corner is aligned. It feels like an hour before she looks up and answers. "Because, Brittany. She specifically requested you."


	5. Chapter 5

**LengiesLovex: I most definitely appreciate the kind words.**

**Taeblancaxoxo: I agree about the quote. It was just as heartbreaking then as it is now. Thank you so much for such an in-depth review, and as far as Brittany's mother goes- Sometimes our actions speak louder than words.**

**Lanter: I certainly appreciate it.**

* * *

"Cards, Brittany. All you have to do is sit with her and play."

My head reflexively shakes. "I can't." The words stutter out. "I mean, I don't know how." A swell of nerves tightens my muscles. It's silly how apprehensive I am about being with Santana. We've done it so many times before, and those times I initiated it. But this is different. It feels that way, at least. There's so much riding on these few meetings. And it's all up to me.

Ms. Pillsbury reaches into her desk and retrieves a tri-folded sheet of paper. _The Beginner's Guide to Playing Cards: An Inside Look Into 21__st__ Century Games. _I have to stifle a laugh. There really is a pamphlet for everything. "Have a look through this," she encourages. "It'll explain everything you need to know."

* * *

Boy, is Ms. Pillsbury eight kinds of wrong. Fifteen minutes into our first Tuesday session, I quickly learn that the detailed tutorial for Go Fish I memorized is useless. And it took me hours last night to finally grasp.

When Santana realizes that I'm completely oblivious to this "Gin Rummy" game, she collects the cards and starts playing alone. No words are exchanged; not even after the bell rings.

I can't blame her, though. When Lord Tubbington and I would play poker, he'd get upset and leave whenever I couldn't remember the rules.

* * *

"Sounds like an expensive drink," Mom says, ushering two men into my room. They return carrying my mattress and walk it through the front door. Mom must see my questioning glance because she asks, "You want a bed in Florida, right?"

I nod. "It's not a drink. Gin Rummy's a card game," I explain, thumbing at my phone. Small screens make perusing how-to guides difficult.

"Speaking of drinks…" Mom hands me one of her own water bottles. I hesitate, not wanting to repeat the incident at school. But my mother's very protective of these plastic containers. For whatever reason. The gesture is almost tribal. Accept the offering and you won't offend the elders. So I take it and drink, not wanting to upset her in the least.

In the morning I wake up in a sea of red, black, and white squares, the Ace of Spades plastered to my forehead. Mom bustles in her chair, eyes momentarily popping open. She cackles. "Some game that is."

* * *

It doesn't happen until our fifth session- on a Thursday. I'm basking in the usual silence, intently watching Santana move cards from column to column, when she gathers a pile and issues cards on both sides of the table.

"Each player gets ten cards," she begins. "Face cards are ten points, Aces are one, and all others are worth their number value." I nod, recalling some of the information from continuous nights of studying. Santana goes on. "You've got runs- three consecutive cards of the same suit; and sets- three or four of the same number value."

I watch in awe as she shifts hastily from instructing to dealing. Storing new information is tough, but my ears focus, appreciating the way each new word rolls off of Santana's tongue. She doesn't use the slow, insulting dialect that everyone else does when they explain stuff to me.

After she says, "Person with the lowest score wins"- we play. I lose twelve times in a row.

* * *

It's easy to see why Santana loves this game. She's good at it. Manipulating even the worst hands into winning combinations. There's a level of control. And whether Santana will admit it or not, I think she likes not having to worry about chance.

Halfway into our fourth game today, (one that I'm losing, by the way) I become oddly annoyed with the quiet. No, not the quiet. I could sit in repose with Santana forever. It's the constant _click, click, click_ of plastic against the table. Small noises. The ticking of Ms. Pillsbury's clock. Muffled voices of students passing the office. And with the question I've been itching to ask since the morning at Santana's apartment, I eventually muster an odd, agitated courage to do so. "Why did you emancipate yourself? Why are you living all alone?"

Santana's eyes tear into her cards. Then from her hand, the table, and back. They shift to my side of the table, where it's crystal-clear how shitty I am at this game. She eventually speaks, pointing in front of me, "You can't make that _run_ with this_ set_." Both terms evade me. Which doesn't matter because they're not the only things avoiding me.

When she ignores me the next day, my fuse starts burning short. I snap, "Why did you invite me here if you aren't going to say anything?"

Her eyes cut up, meeting mine for a split second. "I couldn't let you catch pneumonia, could I?" I rack my brain for the reference. _Oh_. Outside her apartment. The cold, unforgiving rain. Right.

I fight the urge to remain silent after her scolding. The last time we had this kind of dialogue, well..yeah. But there are so many questions I need answered. They're worth more than any temporary humiliation. So I ask, "Why did your mother slam the door in my face?"

"Since when has she not been a royal bitch?" Santana asks.

"You can't answer my questions with questions, Santana. That's not fair."

"Isn't it, though?" She allows a faint grin.

From the display of cards, my loss is imminent. That's forty-six games and forty-six losses. I'm so far from caring about winning, though, because Santana is having a conversation with me that isn't followed by tears. At least, not yet. The boundaries with her are still very unclear because they change daily. One afternoon, she might dismiss the query and continue the small talk; another- I'm ignored for the rest of our time together. Today feels like a good one, however, so I decide to brave foreign territory. "What was it like? Being cut off from the outside world?"

Santana's demeanor makes me regret asking. She places her cards to the table, and begins alternating between the wrist-massaging and palm-writing I witnessed in Figgins's office. I react, placing a soft touch to the joint. It's the first physical contact we've had in forever. Only now do I understand that despite whatever change in mood, attitude, or behavior she's undergone, I'm still sitting across from the Santana I once knew.

When I let go and begin to apology, she just shakes her head. "Don't," she starts, apparently searching for an explanation. "You ask too many questions, you know that?" I cringe, knowing it's true. "Riddle me this: what does water taste like?"

I have no response. Some things just _are_, you know? Water definitely is one of those things. And that must be Santana's point, I guess. Some things are inexplicable. "Can I ask you one more question?" I ask, not wanting to push too far too fast. She nods. "Why didn't you read any of my letters?"

If Santana's previous reaction was out of hurt, then this one resembles something far worse. Without warning, she shoots from the table and packs her belongings into a black backpack. "I think that's enough questions for today," is the only explanation I'm given. When Santana is gone, the room's emptiness swallows me. I can't help but think that with every step we move forward, she yanks us back five.

* * *

When I get home, Mom is sitting against the wall, two empty water bottles near her feet. I'm suddenly thankful that she doesn't use cups or anything because there would be a mess waiting for me every day. "Drinks are in the fridge," she slurs when I shut the door too loudly.

There are two fresh vodka bottles on the counter, and I turn to the living room. "Shouldn't we be saving this money for the trip?"

Mom groans in response. When I open the refrigerator, no light pops on. There's no burst of cool air. A lone stick of butter in the door is melted. My mother typically prefers sitting in the dark while I'm at school (the lights aggravate her eyes), but I flip the kitchen switch anyway. Nothing. The hallway, the bathroom, my room. All are subdued in blackness. "This'll definitely save some cash," I mutter to myself.

I gather four candles from various cabinets and light them. My mother's face is barely visible through the flames, but not enough to hide how tired she looks. Worn down. Her eyes devoid of life. It's frightening, imagining a time when she was lively and spirited. I can't remember those days, of course, but they existed. I'm sure of it.

_Florida will be the change of scenery she needs_, I think. God, I sure hope so.

* * *

It's confirmed. Mom's friend calls this morning, and we're heading out early Wednesday morning. I'm excited, purely because sleeping on the bedroom floor is giving me all kinds of back pain. And practicing cards by candle light is more strenuous with each passing day.

When I'm underneath the bleachers with Quinn and her friends, I break the news. "Quinn. Skanks," I proclaim. "I'm afraid this will be my last time joining you guys. I'm moving next week." They all begin to clap. See, even skanks are good people.

Quinn soon asks, "Have you told Santana yet?"

I shake my head. "Not yet." She tips her head because she understands. I'm not sure what, exactly, but Quinn just knows when it comes to Santana and me.

We relax and smoke a while longer. I pass Mom's bottle around in celebration. It isn't until the lunch bell rings that a figure emerges from the school doors and marches our way. Cat Poo Girl is the first to notice and stomps our joint out. It's not in enough time for the smoke to fully clear, though, before the figure stands afoot the couch. She and Quinn exchange glares, as if they're about to kill each other, before she points to me. "Can I speak with you? In private?"

I nod furiously and extend a hand, the Latina helping me to my feet. Someone mumbles and the skanks laugh as we walk away. Santana crosses her arms. "You should be in class," she says.

My high instantaneously wears off with the emphasis of her words. "So should you," I quip.

She forces a laugh and says, "Touché," before glaring over my shoulder at Quinn and the Skanks. Her voice is humbled the next time around. "I, uh. I need you to come with me this weekend. On a road trip. But only if you want to, of course." I mull it over, thinking about what last-minute items need to be tended to around the house. Most of our stuff's moved out, mind a few items that Mom promises to take care. A day trip shouldn't be any problem. I'm about to ask where when Santana senses this and cuts me off with, "It's a surprise."

"Sure," is all I can say to hide my surprise and excitement for the invitation.

She smiles again, and it's the kind that reminds me why Santana's smile is my favorite thing in the world. "Great," she says. "Be ready by six tomorrow morning." I nod my head, not caring how early I have to be up. Or where we're going, for that matter. It's a road trip. With Santana.

"Oh, and Brittany," she calls as we begin to part ways. "Sober, please."

* * *

I'm up at four forty-five, thankful that the water has yet to be cut off. It's our sole-remaining utility. I shower and pray that the outfit I pick out matches. God forbid I leave looking like Rachel Berry. Santana used to always make fun of her, saying she dressed like a blind Sunday school teacher.

Mom's asleep when I head outside. An unfamiliar car pulls to the curb in front of my house just as the clock hits six. Santana's in the passenger seat, which is odd. That is, until I remember what the scruffy officer explained so long ago. Her car was impounded the night she got arrested. And until she can afford all of the fees, it means either bumming a ride or walking.

When I climb into the backseat, Santana hands me a cup of coffee and immediately introduces the driver. I don't need an explanation, though. She's plenty familiar. The girl from Santana's apartment. My replacement. She extends a hand and says, "Carey."

The trip takes almost two hours. At some point, I must've dozed off because Santana's shaking my leg. "We're here, Brittany." Her voice is gentle. Kind of like when I used to spend the night at her house on a school night, and she'd wake me for Cheerios practice.

I take in the surprise destination, instantly wishing I was still asleep. In fact, I pinch the back of my arm just to make sure I'm not. Unfortunately, this is not a bad dream. This is something far worse.

* * *

Do you ever wish there were things you could un-see? Or things you could un-hear? I certainly do. And on the list of places I would like to un-visit, this ranks in at number one.

I used to believe that Santana would never intentionally hurt me. Not even after she made nasty remarks, or told me to stay out of her life. Not when she ignored my efforts at reconciliation. Because we've always possessed a set of unspoken duties toward the other. Responsibilities to protect each other- mentally, emotionally, and physically. That's what best friends do. That's what you do for the people you love. So, when Santana leans in my ear and whispers, "You wanted answers? Here they are,"- I start to believe just how terribly, terribly wrong I've been.

* * *

The sound of buzzers engaging to unlock heavy doors is something I don't think anyone can forget. It's the sound of finality. Like a gun at the starting line, what you're doing doesn't completely set in until you hear the noise.

I have to slide my identification into a small window slot, as do Santana and Carey. Thankfully my name's still in their computer system, or I'd have to spend forty minutes filling out complicated paperwork like last time. We're made to remove our shoes, pass through a metal detector, and place our hands on the wall while a lady makes sure we aren't smuggling what they call "contraband", which surprisingly has nothing to do with music.

We're then sent into a room I haven't seen before. It's completely white, just like everywhere else in this place, but there are tables freely placed around the massive area. Another small group visits on the other side, speaking in hushed tones. I follow Carey and Santana to a table where a tall, stocky woman sits. She looks to the guard, as if asking for permission, before hugging Carey for all of one second.

I barely make out Carey muttering, "Happy birthday, Momma."

The woman then peers at Santana and scowls. "Well I'll be. If it isn't Salsa Caliente, the world's worst gambler."

Santana grins. "Hey, Roz."

The attention shifts to me, and it's like I suddenly forget how to breathe. Roz's eyes search me up and down. Never have I felt smaller, even if I tower over the other two girls. "Pretty blonde hair and even prettier blue eyes," she confirms. "You must be Brittany." I exhale loudly and we all laugh.

Over the next hour, I sit and listen as the three catch up. Apparently, Santana and Roz used to hang out in their daily recreational hour, playing cards and what not. It's where Santana learned Gin Rummy. Roz says she was terrible in the beginning and didn't get much better down the road. Santana doesn't do much to defend herself, but emits a genuine laugh. The one I've waited to hear for the longest time.

Per the conversation: Carey, Roz's daughter, lives in their apartment with Roz's mother. She has Alzheimer's and Dementia, which means someone has to look after her twenty-four/seven. Carey, who's a year older than Santana and me, dropped out of school last semester to do just that. "There isn't much change in behavior these days," she informs Roz. "She just keeps telling me that George is an odd name for a young lady. And asks when you'll be back from vacation."

Roz laughs, but I can see something in her face that is anything but joyful. It's painful to watch, and before I'm fully aware, my hand reaches for Santana's wrist. It's instinctive. I sit, holding it underneath the table, while she doesn't budge. "That's terrible," I mumble. Tears are threatening, so I squeeze Santana harder.

"It's life, honey. Time takes us all, I'm afraid. It's taken me a while to realize this, but the clock refuses to stop for anybody. You. Me. The sun's still going to rise and the world will keep turning."

"Why lie? If she forgets, why not just tell her the truth?" I ask, still confused.

Roz uprights herself and leans on the table. "A pain like that, you can't forget. Trust me, I try each day. And every morning, the hurt's realer than it was before." She smiles, looks to Carey, and then back at me. "Sometimes lies are the only glue to keep a heart from shattering into a million pieces."

Time's slipped away because the guard returns and signals our five minute warning, in which Roz stands to hug all three of us. Even me- the stranger. "It was lovely getting to meet you, Brittany. You're all that Santana made you out to be and just a little bit more." She turns to Santana and mentions, "By the way, Mrs. Parker's taken over the choir."

Santana makes a playful grumbling noise. "You may swear that I'm no gambler, but I'd bet two packs of cigarettes that it's shit without my voice," she brags.

Roz chuckles. "You bet your perfectly round ass it is."

When we finally hit the road and communication runs thin, I say, "If you don't mind my asking.. What did your mom do?"

Carey looks into the rearview mirror. "Besides give birth to the coolest fucking daughter ever?" She's isn't hesitant in the least. "Her aunt, my great aunt, married a man who liked to hit her. When she refused to leave him, my mom took a gun and shot him. Twenty years with good behavior."

"That doesn't make you sad?"

She scoffs and looks to and uncomfortable Santana before grumbling, "The bastard deserved it."

* * *

The rest of my weekend is a slow blur of questions unanswered. More specifically, trying to figure out what Santana wanted me to learn from the visit.

On Tuesday, my last at McKinley, I enter Ms. Pillsbury's office with the largest knot in my stomach. Last night, I rehearsed breaking the news of my move to Santana. Each time I broke down crying.

Now Santana's at the table, as always, dealing cards to both sides. She briefly smiles at me, and it's the first unwarranted one I've received since we started these meetings. After a quick first game, Santana clears her throat and clears it again. The same way I repeatedly did last night, hoping the words would magically fall from my mouth. "Listen," she says. "I've been doing some thinking, and you're right. It wasn't very fair of me to ignore your letters." I try to cut her off, insist that she doesn't have to do this, but she puts the universal "let me finish" hand up. "So I'm proposing a deal. We keep our regular schedule and play the games, as usual. And for every game you win, I'll read one of the letters."

It takes everything I have in me to keep it together. To prevent myself from melting into an emotional heap on Ms. Pillsbury's floor. According to the form Santana's features take, it isn't reaction she expected to such a generous offer. _This is it_, I decide. I have to tell her. I owe it to her. And before I think again, "We're moving," falls from my lips.

"Where to?" she quickly asks.

"Florida."

"With who?" she asks even quicker than before.

"Just me and Mom."

Santana snickers at the information. "On whose dime? Have they upped the monthly unemployment checks or something?"

I resist the impulse to argue. She's upset. Shocked. Santana always gets defensive when she's in turmoil. And it almost destroys me once more. "We're leaving, Santana. And none of your sarcasm is going to change that." I'm forced to use the parent voice.

Santana's real feelings break through her slowly cracking facade. She looks hurt. Betrayed, almost. Her eyes cower, like she's punishing herself for ever allowing such slight emotion to show. Finally, she asks, "When?"

_'Tomorrow_!' I internally shout. Until Roz's words run through my head. _Sometimes lies are the only glue to keep a heart from shattering into a million pieces. _So I steel my voice, fighting a quiver that threatens to break free, and answer, "At the end of the month."

The relief on Santana's face is enough to send me out of the office and sobbing all the way home.

* * *

My bags are packed. Each room is cleared and barren, mind Mom's old bedroom. She wants to leave its remnants behind. Drowned-out memories too painful to confront.

"Last minute snack run," Mom announces, bursting through the front door. She pops into my bedroom, where I'm thumbing through the box of unopened letters. If my mother gets a fresh start, then so do I. I've decided to let the letters stay. "Want anything from the store?" she asks.

I put an order in for a bag of Jolly Ranchers and a box of Lucky Charms. The only past delicacies that will make it into my future. What little cash I have goes towards gas. The way I see it, being broke in a new town is the freshest start, right?

Mom and Chubby Bald Guy leave together. Evidently, he's our way to the Sunshine state. "We'll be back in thirty minutes. Make sure you've got everything packed by then. Okay?" I force a smile. No one likes a sad little panda. "You're going to love Florida, honey," she reassures. "Trust me."

I move to the window seat and sit, thinking about Lima. About everyone here. The memories. McKinley. Cheerleading. Glee club. My dad. His grave. And how none of it matters.

None of it ever mattered, not when Santana wasn't there to experience it with me. I think about the box. Each letter. The hours poured into them. I guess they don't matter, either. Santana never read them. Still, I'm hopeful that maybe, just maybe, whoever moves into the house next will find a mysterious box of letters. Maybe, just maybe, they'll be curious and patient enough to read each one. Maybe, just maybe, they'll be smart enough to decipher through the inside jokes, and understand the thought and emotion behind them.

Maybe, just maybe, someone might read about a girl named Brittany, who ventured the lonely path of loving a girl named Santana as deeply as humanly possible, and broke her own heart along the way.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note and replies are included at the end, and should not be read until after the chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**

* * *

Sunlight barely pokes through window when I wake up. My back is stiff from the window seat, whose cushion lacks the comfort of a younger make. Wait. I jump up and tear through the house, poking my head into every nook and cranny.

_"We're sorry, but the number you have reached is not available. Please lea-" _I shut the phone off. Redial. Repeat. I rummage through my bags, grab a balled-up jacket, and snuggle into my previous spot in the window.

_Maybe if I go back to sleep, this dream will be over soon enough_.

* * *

The sun has disappeared and is replaced by blackness; mind a tiny surge of smoke coursing from the kitchen. I tense myself, remaining as calm and quiet as possible, while a flashlight's beam frantically cuts across the tobacco's exhaust. It's like a scene from a movie. Right before someone dies.

A ray of blinding light focuses on my face. I cover my head with the jacket, praying that if I just go to sleep once more, this nightmare will end like the last. Only it doesn't. Within seconds, a hand grabs my haven and rips it away.

* * *

"I thought you were a robber," I say as Santana rummages through our cabinets, searching for plates.

She returns empty-handed. "Seems like someone's already cleaned the place out. Besides, would a robber come bearing gifts of pizza?"

"How did you even get in here?"

"Door was unlocked," she shrugs.

"No it wasn't," I say, knowing full and well that I locked it just after Mom and Chubby Bald Guy left. "Wait. Did you break into my house?"

"I spent a _year_ living with criminals, Brittany. What did you expect?" Santana marches into the hallway, cracks open a gray door, and searches among the black switches. She flips one. Nothing. She flips another. Nothing. When she finally returns, two glass bottles tucked underneath each arm. "Did you know your mom had a stash spot behind the fuse box? Woman never ceases to amaze me." She places the half-full containers on the counter. "Where is the monster, anyway? I half-expected World War Three to go down."

"Out," I spit. "Busy amazing other people."

"Brittany, you know I didn't mean it like that."

"Don't worry about it," I dismiss, not moving from my spot. There's no use, really. Not since Santana returns to the living room and lights all four of our candles. Each of which is practically burned to the bottom wick. "What are you doing here?" I ask.

Santana opens the box and smells of pepperoni and cheese instantly cut out the staleness of cigarettes. "Ready?" she asks, fist formed in her palm. I groan at the old ritual.

When we were younger, Santana had a knack for claiming the largest piece first. I'd protest, but she'd always insist that whoever's mom bought the pizza got first pick. It wasn't until years later that we realized my mother wasn't the pizza-buying kind, so Santana caved to the idea of giving me a fair shot. Massive appetites and grumbling stomachs provided the necessity for something quick; and thus the Pre-Pizza Rock, Paper, Scissors tradition was born.

Much like then, I don't win. And much like then, Santana smirks upon her victory. But this time chooses to leave the clearly biggest piece for me. "You always pick rock," she chuckles before taking a bite.

We sit in silence, devouring the food. "Got anything to drink in this place?" Santana eventually asks, wandering back into the kitchen, searching both refrigerator and freezer. Agitation creeps on. At how blasé she's acting. Avoiding my questions. Asking too many of her own.

"If you don't mind vodka," I call. She's pausing in front of the freezer, and it takes a minute for her to snap out of the trance. We've never purchasing anything worth keeping _that_ cold. I let her search anyway.

"Trust me, some days I wish I could."

I think of Ms. Pillsbury's instructions from when I started meeting with Santana. _"I understand that you'll only be together during school hours, but maybe you can put a bug in her ear. The parole board is very serious about their drug tests. Drugs and alcohol both. Parties wouldn't be in her best interest." _I think of how attending high school parties would warrant a need for friends, and last time I checked, Santana seriously lacks in that department.

"You never answered my question," I say. "Why are you here?"

She lights another cigarette, focusing intently on the lighter's flame. Seconds pass, the flame still burning. "Did you know that these puppies can stay lit for about eight to twelve consecutive minutes?" I shake my head. "That's only if a) you don't mind it burning the absolute shit out of your finger, or b) you're prepared for the bastard to explode in your hand." Where it was just steeled, Santana's voice lowers to above a whisper. "Regardless, something's getting hurt."

Santana lets go of the plastic, the flame disappearing. She continues, "But if you use it in spurts, like it was designed for, the lighter will last you a long time."

I'm not sure why there's a need for such cryptic messages, but Santana's never been good at discussing her emotions. If you were to ask her how she felt about the weather, it would take ages for a response. So I don't press the issue. I'll admit, even if the ambiguity is slightly annoying, it isn't so bad having her here. Makes being alone not suck so badly.

Maybe it's the numbing sensation Santana brings about that makes me say it. Or maybe it's my inner child, longing for some sort of nostalgic normalcy. Whatever the case may be, I blurt, "My mom won't be back until the morning. You could hang out here tonight. You know- if you wanted to."

The indecision she expresses is enough to make me regret saying anything. She bites her bottom lip, eyes scanning the very empty, pitch-black apartment. I'm about to retract the invite when, through the shallow light of candles, I see her eyes soften and head nod. "That sounds great, Brittany."

* * *

When morning comes, I'm not surprised to find Santana wide awake. In fact, something tells me that she never fell sleep. "What time is it?" I ask, making Santana jump.

"About ten-thirty," she answers. "I didn't want to take off before you woke up. There's twenty bucks on the counter, and my phone number's written on it." Santana is gathering her things, but leaves the blankets. "Just shoot me a text when your mom gets home."

"Thanks, Santana. For everything. I certainly love you for it. You know that, right?"

She nods, opens the door, and says, "Of course" before leaving.

* * *

I alternate between sleeping and waiting all day. Sometimes I hear the door creak, but it must be the wind or something. Because right outside the window, skies darken into a navy hue. Droplets of water hit the glass. I dial Mom again, wanting to warn her about traveling in the oncoming storm, but the same message plays into my ear. "_We're sorry, but the number you have reached is not available."_

She knows how much I hate lightning. And thunder, for that matter. So why would she leave me alone during a combination of the two? Truthfully, I think Chubby Bald Guy is making her stay out. Otherwise she'd be home by now. Doing puzzles with me while the rain passed.

So I get up from the window, becoming faintly aware of just how I long I've been settled up there. My joints ache. Santana's number is scribbled along the bill's top line, so I use what remaining life my battery has and shoot her a text. _Mom just called and said they wouldn't be back until morning._

Not a full minute passes before the phone buzzes. _Got some errands to run. I'll be there right after._

* * *

It's pushing three in the morning when someone knocks on the door. Santana is drenched from head to toe, a multitude of items tucked underneath her arms. She must notice that I haven't changed clothes, because her eyes avert to the countertop, where the bottle remains. "Having you been sleeping all day?" she asks, leaning toward my mouth.

"I'm fine, Santana." I breathe in her face. "See?"

She pulls back with a grimace. "Not with that breath." We both laugh.

I light the candles as Santana unloads two massive blankets, a deck of cards, a plastic sack with what looks takeout, and a wad of dollar bills. She places a baseball bat next to the door before shoving a piece of white piece of paper into her pocket. "Is that really necessary?" I ask. "You know how I feel about violence."

"Of course, Brittany. But I also know how it took me all of four seconds to pick _that_ lock." She gestures to the front door.

Fair enough. We sit and finish two ham sandwiches a piece before Santana pulls out the deck of cards. "Ms. Pillsbury's been asking about you," she says, dealing to both sides. "Wants to know when my accounta-billi-buddy will be back. Whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean." We both laugh again, knowing that only Ms. Pillsbury could think of such an absurd title.

There's this odd sleepover feeling that resonates; chatting and laughing alongside Santana. It's one of those things grown-ups say you can't appreciate until it's gone. They're one hundred percent correct. The thought almost brings me to tears, and it isn't until Santana chimes in do I realize. "Did you hear me?" she asks, pointing to the cards. "You won."

Not even I suck badly enough at this game to accidentally win. Or to know that an accidental win is possible. Because it's not. I humor Santana, though, recognizing her efforts. Knowing how out of practice she is when it comes to comforting others. In all honesty, Santana was raised to believe that consoling a person meant holding one's tongue and not ripping their head off. I think it comes from when her abuela tried to sell her, but I've never asked.

So I venture into my bedroom, remembering the stipulations of our bet, and fetch the wooden box Santana shoved into my arms so long ago. "Help yourself," I say. My brain is too tired to function any longer, so I grab a blanket and return to the window seat.

Sleep doesn't come easy. In fact, I'm completely slept out. But not energetic enough to hold any sort of conversation, or move for that matter, so I lay still. Watching for Mom's shadow. Listening as rain drops pummel the glass. As thunder rumbles after each bolt of lightning. As letter after letter opens, unfolds, gets tossed to the side. And as Santana's muffled cries accompany each.

* * *

This goes on for the rest of the week. Each morning Santana leaves with puffy eyes and I keep quiet. Each night, in the early hours of morning, she returns with food. She doesn't protest when I opt to remain home and wait. I still don't bother with trying to convince Santana that our electricity has been cut off each time she saunters to the freezer and peeps inside.

It's mid-morning when I have the most awesome revelation. _Of course._ How could I have been so blind? Tomorrow is Check Day, and Mom never misses collecting her unemployment. Hell, she practically tackles the mailman.

An equal swell of joy and sadness suddenly fill my chest. Mom will be back, and we'll move to Florida together. Santana will have to leave, though. It's just a matter of breaking the news.

That can wait, however. The house needs to be perfect for my mother and whoever lives here when we leave. So I take some of the cash Santana leaves every day and rush to the store, purchasing an array of cleaning supplies.

At some point throughout the process, I dare to enter my parent's bedroom. It's just what I expected. A sty of memories. Glass bottles litter the ground. Musty clothes pile high on what one would assume is the bed. I resolve to leave the area unscathed. Except for one of Mom's favorite jackets and an old picture. It's of me, my mom, and grandpa. Taken shortly after my dad died, Mom insisted that he'd still want me to dance, so I did. It was the only recital she ever came to. And I can remember every detail of the day. Performing. Stopping for ice cream after. Mom telling me how proud she was and that Dad would've been too. On a list of The Happiest Days of B.S.P's Life, it ranks in at number one.

I finish scrubbing what little remains of Chateau Pierce when Santana walks through the door.

She's carrying more takeout and shoving another piece of paper into her pocket. "Wow, Brittany. The place looks great," she says.

I can only do so much to conceal the excitement I feel. So instead of testing the waters, I dive in. "She's coming back." It takes everything in me not to shout it from the rooftops.

"You said that yesterday. And every day before that."

"But this time, it's different. Tomorrow's Check Day," I say.

Santana arches her eyebrows and bites her lip. She places the plastic bag on the counter and grabs my wrist, leading me to the window seat. It's the same kind of behavior Dad showed when he tried to tell me that _he _was the Easter Bunny, but he was only joking. I catch myself smiling at the thought, on top of the beams radiating from my face. But Santana doesn't return it. Instead, she clears her throat like she always does when she can't figure out what to say.

"You know, I remember that day," she says, pointing to the picture frame in my hand. "God, you danced so beautifully, B." I smile and nod, forgetting the familiarity of the nickname, but basking in the memory.

"I forgot you were there, too."

She nods. "You bet your ass I was. We got ice cream afterward. You convinced me that rainbow sherbet and chocolate was a good combination." We chuckle in unison.

Her eyes droop again, and I'm afraid that Santana is about to start crying. Maybe they're happy tears. I get those sometimes. "Listen to me," she starts but then pauses, swallowing. "Do you remember right before the performance, when you thought Susan going to make it? You freaked out for a solid hour."

I nod, vividly remembering my first panic attack. And how Santana calmed it by slamming her lips into mine. She said it wasn't weird because they did it on a movie, and then she said, "_Break a leg, best friend_." Santana must remember that part too, because she starts talking in her speedy-nervous voice. "You kept saying, 'She isn't going to show up. She forgot me.'"

"But she did show," I reply.

"Exactly," she says and looks away, swallowing again. "She just got the directions mixed up. Well, right now is no different. Your mom's just a little mixed up. Lost. And I can't promise that 'in time' will be tomorrow, or a month, or a year from now, but she'll make it home."

I'm shaking my head at the outrageousness of her words. Everything that they insinuate. "What are you going to say next? That Santa isn't real?"

Santana's taken aback by the comment, but it's easy to see that she doesn't understand. She just doesn't _get it._ So I explain: "I'm sad about moving, too. Especially with how much fun we've been having recently. But I'll come back and visit. I promise. And it'll be just like your lighter metaphor, right? Short bursts?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what _did _you mean? Because I'm having a tough time figuring out exactly what your words mean," I snap. I'm up and walking toward the counter, where I've stacked all of the Santana's money. "Look, I understand you and my mother haven't been the best of friends, but she's still my mother. And she loves me. And she would never just leave me. Not like you did."

When I head toward the freezer, Santana stands and urges, "Brittany, don't-"

But I'm on a roll, moving too quickly to be silenced. "So here. Here's all of your pity money. It'll be hidden away nicely from all of these 'robbers' you've been so worried about." The vicious words pour, fueling a train of spite. And when I finally tug on the freezer's handle, that train slams to a halt.

* * *

Columns and columns of envelopes fill the freezer. From top to bottom- it's stuffed. I pull one out, noticing that it's addressed from the electric company. Another from the gas company. There are all kinds of them. Bills from utility companies, tax collectors. Many dated as far back as six months ago.

It's all too much and too little at the same time. I reach in and gather all of them in my arms, tossing the heap into Santana's. We stand, eyes shifting to the items and back to each other. "Please tell me these don't mean what I think they do," I plead, hot water stinging my eyes. Santana remains speechless, and she tries catching my hand.

But I'm gone, storming outside just as a bolt of lightning flashes across the night sky. Pelts of rain do little to soothe a burning face, and even littler to conceal my freshly fallen tears. I rack the ground, searching for something. Anything. A husky branch sits underneath our neighbor's oak tree, so I pick it up before retreating back in.

"_Brittany_," Santana begs once more. It doesn't fully register, though. Compared to the fury that courses through my veins up into my thoughts, everything else is white noise.

I'm swinging at any and everything in my path. Beginning with the picture frame. Then the walls. Countertops. The few items Mom insisted could remain in Lima. I punch a massive hole in the hallway wall leading up to my parents' room. And then I enter. Earlier, it was divine land. Kept in tact as homage to the past. _Fuck the past_, I think. This present is painful enough.

Darkness shields me from the specifics of what I'm destroying, but sounds of shattering glass and breaking furniture are enough to fuel my internal fire. The branch is mid-air once more when two arms catch me from behind. They squeeze tightly, hindering any further damage. I must be putting up one hell of a fight because when Santana starts dragging me backwards, she sounds winded. "It'll be okay, Brittany. It'll be okay. Breathe."

It won't be okay, though. Nothing about _this_ is okay. Never in the land of okay has anyone felt the way I do. She promised, didn't she? That we'd be happy in Florida? She said we'd get a fresh start. Any optimistic notions I held of a family reborn are dispelled in an instant.

Santana drags us to the ground and perches next to me against the wall, a firm grip on both of my wrists. "She promised," I mutter, squeezing my eyes shut. Desperately trying to make the tears stop. Trying to wake from this nightmare.

A notion slams into me. "It's my fault. Everything. Florida was just too far away. I burdened her into the impossible, and now she's gone. Not coming back. Because of _me_."

When the panic sets in, I'm completely vulnerable. My chest heaves. Quick gasps enter and exit until even breathing becomes too much. It feels as if an elephant is sitting on my throat. So I begin rocking back and forth, thinking that if it works in the movies, surely it'll work now. It doesn't. Nothing does. Nothing will ever work again. And I'm the reason it won't.

I feel like the little girl at her first dance recital. Full of dread, fear, and terror. I dare to look at Santana, silently begging for help. The past and present seem to collide, forming this very moment. Because somewhere, hidden deep within those brown eyes, she recognizes the little girl. And much like that same child, when Santana presses her lips into mine- the time, tears, and panic disappear.

* * *

**Quite a few of you sensed what chaos was about to ensue. Four for you, guys. Four for you. And though I'm not particularly concerned with the amount of reviews, they've started growing on me. Seriously. Thank you.**

**haimay7: You pegged it. And I most certainly appreciate you for reading.**

**Spaceship Coupe: Trust me, nothing about writing this is easy. Lol, but I appreciate you taking the time to read and review.**

**Lanter: I don't suppose the number of reviews is my biggest concern. I'm just thankful that is has the readers it does. Your review is a massive compliment, and so I thank you.**

**LoneGambit: Your feedback seriously made me feel eight kinds of awesome. Thank you for taking the time to read.**

**4evamuzic: I certainly appreciate that.**

**MothaLicka: I'm merely doing my best with Brittany's emotions, but thank you for realizing this. And thanks for the review. I aim to update as soon as possible, without compromising/jeopardizing the standard of work.**

**And to the guests that review: You guys rock as well, and your insights are the things I treasure. (Specifically to the guest with the long-ass review: You rock. End of story. I hope that your questions are cleared up soon enough.)**


	7. Chapter 7

**currish: Wow. I certainly appreciate the kind words.**

**LengiesLovex: Thank you so very much.**

**4evamuzic: If you're crying, my job is done. Haha, no. Thanks a heap for your words and taking the time to share.**

**Guest: Thank you so very much. I don't plan on shelving. (Can't stand when that happens!)**

**A/N: This is more development. Obviously, the grieving process is a long, complex one. And I wanted nothing more than to merely hint at the individual processes.**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or its characters.**_

* * *

I finally understand what Artie meant by calling me stupid in vouching for Santana. If you think about it, there's something terribly childish about searching for the good in others. It sets you up to believe the same in everyone. The way fairy tales do. But everyone lies. They deceive. They kick you to the curb without so much as a second thought. I say, to hell with that bit. To hell with praying for miracles. Even the magic robot legs Santa brought Artie were broken within a day.

So ensues waking up with my head on Santana's lap, the aforementioned being my only thoughts. How pathetic. She looks peaceful, though, even in sleeping propped up against the bathroom door. I keep still, soaking in the empty silence that surrounds. Santana rustles. Her eyes pop open, as if waking from a terrible dream. She appears disoriented in the first five seconds of consciousness.

Anyone that knows the Latina well enough knows that morning-Santana is normal-Santana's alter ego. The evil twin. Imagine Snix with bedhead and morning breath. It's no surprise when she begins grumbling something unintelligible while walking to the front door. Evidently, there is a white piece of paper to its outside, similar to the ones Santana kept stuffing into her pockets. She hands it to me. In bold red letters:

**Notice of foreclosure. A Court Order has been issued requiring that all persons and their possessions be removed from these premises.**

** After 7 a.m Saturday morning, persons remaining on the premises may be subject to arrest for trespass.**

It takes everything I have not to crack up laughing. _Of fucking course. _Seems like Santana to keep this from me. She knew. Every fucking day leading up to this moment. _Better to spare Brittany's feelings. God forbid she know anything beforehand. No. Just let the heartache of surprise abandonment hit her like a ton of fucking bricks._

Santana recognizes my annoyance. It's obvious. For she wordlessly reclaims the notice, peruses it, and begins punching numbers into her cellphone. A second passes. She looks back to the paper and enters more numbers.

"Yes," she says. There's faint talking on the other end. "Susan Pierce." More talking. "5058 Piney Ridge Way."

I tune out at this point. It's pointless adult business that I'm sure Santana prefers to handle. When she finally mutters, "Thank you", I'm up and submerged in my parents' bedroom.

Light poking through the curtains removes the shield I was afforded last night. It's what you imagine the aftermath of a natural disaster to look like. Glass and cracked drywall dusted across the floor. Chipped wooden furniture. A shattered closet mirror. Amidst the rubble, glimmering from underneath their bed, are four unopened liquor bottles. Maybe my mother forgot about them. Maybe she stashed them for a rainy day. Whatever the case may be, I'm thankful for not smashing them. The itch is very persistent this morning, and I'm done trying to deny the inevitable.

The door creaks as I demolish a quarter-bottle in one continuous chug. There is no burn. No gag. Nothing. "Grab your bags," Santana instructs. She's rubbing the bridge of her nose. Agitated. I take another swig.

In the living room (which is an odd name, considering just how lifeless it is) Santana's upper body is covered in straps. My belongings are draped across her shoulders. "Am I going to have to carry you too?" Not in the mood to argue, I palm the neck of two bottles, two others underneath my arms, and follow Santana outside, the image of my former home slowly fading from memory.

The walk to her apartment takes longer than it should. Last night's wind and steady rain persist. Santana struggles with loads of soaking duffel bags. As for me- well, the vodka finally kicks in. In an hour, we both stagger up the stairwell. Santana fiddles with keys while I inhale the fresh smells of rain. But inside, the stale odor of cigarette smoke is as pungent as ever.

* * *

Santana sleeps on the couch all weekend, fading in and out of the apartment with odd work hours. I don't ask what she does. But late nights and large wads of small bills only allow so much room for imagination.

It's the same routine on weekdays. She attends school, work, and various parole-related activities. I float around the apartment, making the numbing fluids stretch as far as possible before I'm forced downtown, asking a homeless person to buy more for me. Sometimes I remember to shower and change clothes. Other times, roaming from room to room in the only feeling I recognize anymore is productive enough.

We don't exchange many words. Any, really. Our lengthiest conversations are when Santana asks if I prefer the ham or turkey sandwich every night. On rare instances, I even hear her singing or mumble "How far we all come.." underneath her breath. Whatever that's supposed to mean.

Each morning, the itch returns. The need to bury past sorrows underneath gallons of drink. And each morning, I refuse to fight it.

* * *

Operation 'Piece My Best Friend Together' is officially on hold. Primarily because she is teetering on the line between concerned friend and pain in my ass. Favoring the latter.

Seriously. Santana enters the apartment each night with new schoolwork for me to do. I'm forced to crawl out of bed and tell her that she's wasting time. What's the point, really? In graduating if no one is there to appreciate it? To beam with joy as you walk across the stage. Take pictures. Cry. Tell you how proud they are. She often argues. Says I'm throwing my life away. Santana's the annoying, emotional itch in my life. But I don't fight her, either.

I should feel bad when she asks to borrow my Crayons. I should experience a shred of guilt when she sits at the table, pouring over my assignments until sunrise. I should get out of bed and thank her. I should, I should, I should. But I don't. Not when making it through the day is taxing enough.

Santana still cries. Not the 'I stubbed a toe' kind, either. The kind that tears through all resistance. Refuses all pleas for stoppage.

_I should do something, _I think. So I listen.

* * *

I'm caught off guard one Saturday when we're both halfway through the daily rituals. I, almost a half-bottle in. Santana- three completed assignments.

Santana drops a red Crayon, pushes herself from the table, puts her cigarette out, and marches to my position on the couch. (The raggedy bastard grows on you after a while.)

"Here," she spits, yanking the cup from my hand. "We'll switch." A white pack drops onto my lap.

"Santana."

"No, no. I'm dying to figure out what is so glamorous about this shit. You go ahead," she encourages, grimacing after a long pull from the cup. I know how sporadic and unannounced the drug tests are. She could get called in tomorrow, fail, and be readmitted within forty-eight hours. But despite all internal protests, her name merely falls from my lips once more.

She downs the container's remnants and chunks it across the room. A moment passes before she's breathing normal again. "I'm trying, Brittany. I really am." She looks away, mouth lowered but barely open. A light bulb goes off because Santana's eyes light up. "Give me the weekend. Today and tomorrow. After that, I won't utter another word," she pleads. It's so painfully similar to the ultimatum I gave her. A choice between myself and her only emotional saving grace.

All I can do is sit dumbfounded and nod in agreement.

* * *

It's too early to be awake. Even the roosters are still dreaming of fox-free lives. But I drag on, keeping true to my word, and prepare for the day that lies ahead.

We're in Carey's car, silently pressing on toward yet another unfamiliar building. Inside, the place is covered wall-to-wall in leather. Santana checks in with the receptionist, who leads us into another leather-clad room. According to the desk plate, we're in Dr. Fletcher M.D's domain.

"Santana," a rather large man with an equally large beard greets. He peers over a manila folder at me. "I'm going to assume that you're Ms. Pierce."

My mom's advice eerily resurfaces. Visions of our landlord do, too. It's time like this when the itch for a release is more prevalent. _Just what have I gotten myself into?_

…_  
_

I can see why Santana was so perturbed by my curiosity, and why she always comes back to the apartment angry. This guy asks a lot of questions. Many of them pointed with no correct answer. Just pick whichever is less wrong. The only thing more painful that his antagonizing tone is watching Santana fidget. Her head ducks, much like a dog being punished. It doesn't take a second glance to know that she is furiously working at her wrists.

"And your classmates?" Dr. Fletcher asks. "Do you find it easier maintaining your composure around them?"

Santana continues with the invisible scrawl onto bare flesh. "They haven't been giving me as much grief. Which is odd, I guess, but the days are more bearable."

I almost choke on air at the confession. Dr. Fletcher's eyes cut behind thick-rimmed glasses. He seems dissatisfied, almost intent on watching Santana squirm. An ant under the magnifying glass. "What about your mother and father? Do they feel that you're progressing?"

The scribbling hastens. Never have I seen her so disgruntled. "Santana?" he asks. "I asked you a question."

Finally, the tension becomes too much to bear. I've kept relatively quiet during their discussion, so I decide to speak up. If not for Santana's sake, then for mine. "Are you fucking deaf? She clearly doesn't want to answer."

For an anger management counselor with bookoos of cliché 'good vibes' posters, Dr. Fletcher seems taken aback by the outburst. He grunts and readjusts his glasses before saying, "That kind of language only fuels our inner anguish, Ms. Pierce. Causes unnecessary lashing out. I would suggest you refrain from using such terms. If you're capable, that is."

Only now does Santana's head whip up. "Don't talk to her like that. She's not a child." Her lips purse. Eyes narrow. Words as sharp as the razors in her hair.

Unsure as to why she dragged me here, I get up and leave. It's not surprising that Santana follows. She catches my arm. "He didn't mean it like that."

"Surely he didn't. Because nobody actually _means_ what they say anymore." Two people in waiting chairs are onlookers to our shouting match.

Santana appears defeated. "This isn't you, Brittany." She begs then glances back at the office. Maybe it's reflexive, accepting your battles as they come. A characteristic honed by fourteen months of living according to a stranger's orders. She sighs, "I have to finish the full hour."

"Then stay," I sneer. "I'll find a way to the apartment. No one needs to hold my hand when I cross the street, contrary to popular belief. Not anymore."

When I reach the exit, sounds of silence fill the room to capacity. "And Santana," I call. "You keep preaching that my mom is lost or sad or whatever. When's my turn? Huh? When am I allowed to be angry? Sad? Lost? When's _my_ turn?"

Tonight, when Santana pokes her head in the bedroom as I dance along the line of consciousness, I pretend to be asleep. She mutters, "How far we all come away from ourselves.." But she doesn't once mention Dr. Fletcher.

* * *

Evidently, Sunday dinner at the Washington house doubles as Santana's community service. Spending weekly evenings with a forgetful elder probably smoothes over better than Puck's stint of hanging with Crips. More specifically- Artie.

As I'm getting dressed for the final leg of our agreement, the bathroom mirror proves most unforgiving. I look aged. Sagging eyes. A forehead wrinkle or two. It's how I see Santana. And that is what's most terrifying.

Crossing the complex's courtyard, smells of pasta float through the air. It feels like a Friday light years ago. At Breadstix. The old woman who I assume to be Mrs. Washington works at the stove, meticulously dipping a wooden spoon in four pots. When Carey rushes to greet us, Santana bee-lines for the stove.

"Santana Lopez," she introduces, extending a hand.

Mrs. Washington breaks from her trance the same way Santana woke up the last morning in my house. She smiles warmly, "Bernadette Washington." Calling to Carey, she orders, "George, get our guests something to drink." Her eyes fix on me. "_She _doesn't look well."

We sit around a large table and share the meal. I don't dare tell Santana, but it's a nice change from sandwiches. Bernadette must frequently ask her the same questions because Santana has a quick, prepared answer for each. They're egg-shell response, but enough to appease the older woman. Answers I assume that are specially formulated as not to stir up the wrong memory or notion. Replies devoid of emotional merit. I can't help but compare it to speaking with Santana. The only difference being: if I screw up and say the wrong thing, she won't forget the next day.

After two helpings of the world's best spaghetti, Carey and Santana eventually start clearing the table, leaving me and Bernadette to our own devices. "Are you feeling any better, sweetheart?" she asks. Roz sounds just like her.

I smile and nod, unsure as to how I feel, actually. "My name is Brittany, by the way."

"Tell me, Brittany. How do you feel about Christmas trees?"

It's a completely random question that throws me. "Well," I start, blindly struggling to finish. "I think they're born the same way as babies."

Bernadette throws her head back and laughs. Then she pulls me by the arm to a back, closed door. I start wondering if elderly people are capable of murder.

Inside, though, lining each of the four walls from top to bottom, is Christmas memorabilia. Snowmen, ceramic Santas, pine trees, and various ornaments. It's how I've envisioned the North Pole many times. She flips on a radio, revealing holiday-suited music, and we lose ourselves in a sea or red and green.

After a few minutes, Bernadette marches toward me with a picture frame. "This is my little Roz when she was ten. We spent Christmas on a cruise. French Virgin Islands. She hated it." Bernadette laughs. "And to think, she's on another one of those boats right now. Hussie didn't even have the decency to invite her own mother. Left me here to watch after George."

And then she begins on a story about her past. Her parents. Mother worked at a local department store, father headed bridge-building projects. She digs around, swearing that there is a picture of the two in here. But I get caught in looking at a figurine of an elf. He's frowning, like he forgot that elves have rights, too.

When I think to look back at Bernadette, her expression has fallen into another picture frame. It's an old black and white photo of four small children sitting in front of two adults. Children and parents, I assume. A tear rolls down her face, and I can't tell if it's the happy or sad kind. She then points to the smallest girl. "I was six years old."

"Who are the other three?" I ask. They appear to be significantly older than her.

Bernadette seems confused. "Well, these are my parents," she explains, pointing to the adults. And then radio music is all I hear. Eventually, Bernadette shrugs. "I have no idea who the others are. Never seen them before in my life."

I'm panicking and about to apologize when Carey's voice stops me. "Pretty neat, isn't it? Our own little winter wonderland."

"It's the most magical thing I've ever seen," I say.

Bernadette interrupts. "George, will you run along and draw my bath?"

I'm about to follow Carey when Bernadette touches my shoulder. "They think I don't know what's going on. At dinner. In here. That I'm hopeless." She sounds accusatory. Suspicious.

"I know the feeling," I agree, trying to soften the blow.

But Bernadette looks like she's trying to convince herself of something to hold onto. "One day, Brittany, you might not have the sharpest memory. You may not remember the date or what happened last year, but it's hard to forget the people you love. The people that stick around. The people like George."

Carey shouts from the other room. I smile. "It was great meeting you, Mrs. Washington."

"Mrs. Washington's my mother. Bernadette, please," she laughs.

We're both walking out, laughing, when I notice Santana leaning against a doorway. Arms crossed. She's smiling, too. "I was hoping she'd show you the room. Not once has the old bat invited me back there."

I don't respond, still riding the emotional high. Part of me wishes I could stay in there forever. Away from people. Amidst the security and warmth of an unchanging Christmas. Unfortunately, not everyone is as spirited as Bernadette. Not as unicorn.

When we leave, Santana hugs Carey, and I give a cheerful, "Thanks for dinner, George."

…

Walking back, Santana detours us toward the main road. "Just one more stop," she says. I'm stuffed to the brim on not-sandwiches and completely worn out, but follow her into the very familiar neighborhood anyway.

* * *

Climbing onto the Lopez's roof is much easier with two seasoned cheerleaders. It's so normal, stepping into Santana's hand and her propelling me upward. And when we're on our backs, staring into the night, it feels just like a year ago.

Quiet is usually our preferred soundtrack for this moment, but something has been scratching my brain ever since we left Carey's. "Will I turn out like Bernadette?" I ask.

"Oh, she speaks," Santana says and chuckles. She shifts, folding both hands behind her head, before whispering, "I wish I could answer that."

"Do her siblings ever come to visit?" I ask. "She has, like, three. I think."

Santana shakes her head. "The oldest is dead. Other two want nothing to do with her. Mainly because of Roz, among other things."

The idea escapes me. Ignoring someone because of another's actions. And your baby sister, of all people. Then an unsettling knot forms in my stomach. The feeling of Santana's parents avoiding her because of me. But that's a question whose answer I'm not entirely prepared for. Instead, I ask, "Is that why you ignored me? Because of someone else?"

Cricket chirps and buzzing mosquitos fill the void. I'm afraid Santana has fallen asleep when she takes a deep breath, propping up onto her elbows. "There are some things you haven't figured out yet, Brittany. And I pray you never do," she explains, deeply inhaling again. I try to decipher her words, but can't. Not in enough time to cut Santana off from saying, "Some of us just don't have Bernadette's luxury of forgetting, you know?" I nod. "But if you're worried that I'm going to take off- don't. At least, not until I've figure out that secret language of yours." Then she nudges me in the ribs.

Santana mumbles a handful of random words, none of which follow the Super Secretive BSP Code. When I start giggling, she throws her hands up and says, "Fuck it. I tried." And then we're both laughing so hard, I'm afraid her parents will wake up. It wouldn't matter, though. Not when twenty seconds are just this blissful.

* * *

Back at the apartment, the suppressed rooftops thoughts come around full circle. Sometimes, as much as it pains me to admit, being near Santana is the only calming effect those thoughts recognize.

So, when I force Santana to sleep next to me, one might argue it to be purely selfish reasoning. That I'm using her quiet exterior to calm my blaring thoughts. I would then argue against the naysayer, claiming that they don't understand what Santana gets from it. That they can't feel her body relax next to mine, as if a weight has been lifted.

I bask in the feeling, regardless. Having such familiarity within arm's reach. Bernadette's words echo through my head. _You can't forget the ones that stick around._ I think of everyone I've met. Every moment of unconditional joy. My highest highs and lowest lows. There is but one common denominator in each. Santana.

Speaking of. She's yet to budge. I look over, thinking that maybe she's holding her breath like I do when we're close to each other. But two white orbs jut out against the dark room. "Everything's changed, hasn't it?" I ask into the blackness.

Santana yawns. "I'm afraid so, B." And the bed dips as she rolls onto her side.

I don't speak again the entire night. Instead, I lay and think of the way life used to be. Easy. Without worry. Without Karofskys, disappearing mothers, and dead cats. It was always just us two. Well into the night, even when Santana emits a snore (that she'll deny in the morning), I replay the memories. Engraining the moments. And then I squeeze my eyes tight, praying to God that I never forget.


	8. Chapter 8

**MothaLicka: I'm ecstatic that you believe so. Personally, I always believed that Brittany's extreme innocence was onset by a traumatizing event, whether it be home-based, etc. And I certainly appreciate your kind words.**

**Lanter: She most certainly is, and I hope to clear that up at some point.**

**LoneGambit: I'm merely doing the best that I can, lol. And yes, the wait will be worth it. At least I hope. Haha. (Oh, and you've assumed correctly.)**

**Spaceship Coupe: GOD, YOU. I'm thankful for those who do, regardless of number. I'm thankful for you letting the chips fall where they may, as well. Thanks for the kind review.**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters. Any songs used from here on out are property of their respective artists._  
**

* * *

It happens the next morning. According to the alarm clock on Santana's night stand- precisely 4:57 a.m. I spring from the bed, clearing Santana in one jump, and make it to the toilet in barely enough time. In the seconds that pass, spaghetti continuously projects.

Santana rubs her eyes in the doorway. "Everything okay in here?" she asks. "It sounded like you were practicing bird calls."

I nod and rinse my mouth out. "Must have been the food."

We both return to bed, neither of us falling back to sleep. Instead, I drape my arm over Santana's stomach and lay still, careful as to not breathe near her face. I don't feel sick in the least. And last night's food tasted so good. Bernadette seemed to be a much better cook than me, for the puking might make sense had I prepared it. Hopefully it's not a bug, because I've really been looking forward to returning to school. Instead of pointlessly worrying, I nestle into Santana, enjoying the steady in and out of her breathing.

Six a.m. comes much too early.

* * *

We're both finally ready, neither of us looking like ourselves out of the Cheerios uniform. Santana prefers sweatshirts and jeans these days. The way they hang off of her body- it's eerily similar to the orange jumpsuit. Maybe it's a security thing. A habit she formed over the past year, and some sort of comfort. Of course, I'm only speculating. Before we head out the door, backpacks and Crayons in tow, I wrap both arms around her shoulders.

"Thanks, for everything," I whisper. "You know that I love you, right?"

Where she tensed when I initiated the hug, Santana relaxes and allows herself to return it. "Of course, B."

Entering school feels different than it did before. Walking through the doors. Roaming the halls. Even finding my locker. (Santana actually has to help me with that. She even remembers my combination.) All of it feels out of place. Like a distant memory that will never again be crystal-clear.

On my way to geometry, Ms. Pillsbury pokes her head from the counseling office. "I was beginning to worry about you. Santana said you contracted- feline HIV? It sounded dangerous."

I laugh at the idea of Santana trying to explain something so complex. (She knows a lot of things, but I'm the expert on cat-related matters.) It also sends a twinge of hurt through my bones- the memory of Lord Tubbington. Ms. Pillsbury must sense my anguish, for she giddily elaborates, "But we're still happy to have you back. Mr. Schuester's been holding your spot in the glee club."

Glee hasn't once crossed my mind in returning to McKinley, but striving for normalcy is the main focus. Getting back into a routine. So I thank Ms. Pillsbury and decide that when the bell for last period rings, I'll swing through the choir room. For old time's sake.

Fresh off of the sting of history class (apparently Will. I. Am. isn't the president), I detour to the choir room. Inside, Rachel's blabbering about something, Finn is hunkered down listening to her, and Joe is praying on the back row. Even Quinn is here. When I step inside, all eyes shift in my direction, and Rachel quits yapping. Mr. Schuester looks away from the white board and smiles. "Glad to have you back. Take a seat." And so I do.

* * *

I used to think that high school, glee club, and cheerleading were the world. But they're only a small fraction, these days. Much bigger things take place outside of these walls. The little, important moments that make up a larger portion of life. Like the way my heart skips when I see Santana waiting for me outside of glee practice.

"I had a feeling you'd be here," she laughs, taking the books from my hands. "How'd it feel?"

Truthfully, dancing around was nothing like before. And despite Rachel's uproar about us lip-syncing sophomore year, I still do. None of it felt right without Santana to make fun of people, even though I'd convinced myself of being used to it last year. So I just say, "Different."

* * *

It's obvious that Santana is trying to keep me busy, inviting me wherever she goes. I've already decided that her parole meetings are far too boring, and her therapy sessions are far too intimidating. But we go to the grocery store together, which Santana doesn't seem used to. And since egos are at stake, I let her push the cart around and decide between Lucky Charms or Cheerios. She always scoffs at the latter option.

Every night we sit at the table and try to crack the code that is homework. Geometry's hard, primarily because it is shapes and numbers combined. Santana tries to explain that angles are just like puzzles, only without a pretty picture at the end. And since they don't let us play cards anymore on account of Santana doing too well in class to warrant missing, we'll have a game or two. Mainly for dibs on doing the dishes. My winning was obviously a one-time deal because I'm always stuck with the chore. Even though she caves to my whines and helps before leaving.

Tonight, when we're scrubbing away at a skillet crusted over with empanada grease, I ask Santana to sing. She seems hesitant. "I'll see what I can find," she says, retrieving her iPod. I keep cleaning until a faint tune begins on the stereo. A guitar. Then banjoes.

If you've ever witnessed Santana sing, it becomes evident as to why she's so apprehensive. There's no way of hiding from the emotion. The way her face contorts with every word; the way it tenses and releases with every high note. She's completely vulnerable to the music. And since there is always a hidden message behind Santana's song choices, I listen intently. It seems that with each repeat of "_And when I've hit the ground, neither lost nor found; if you'll believe in me- I'll still believe"_, a flicker of hope flashes across her face. As if she's convincing herself of something.

When Santana leaves for work, I give her the most monstrous BSP hug I can muster.

* * *

In a perfect world, when I'm alone in the apartment, I'd revert back to geometry. Try to figure it out. But when you come from a home where homework doesn't exist and alcohol does, you realize that perfect worlds are nonexistent. And since I can't remember the day when Mom and I shared out first drink, or any day where we didn't, it's hard to imagine a life without the stuff.

Do I feel guilty in having a cup or two before bed? Of course. But that _itch_; that feeling of crawling skin- it doesn't vanish overnight. Dialing back should do the trick. Gradually weaning myself off. Because I want nothing more than the wrinkle in Santana's forehead to disappear. A constant reminder of the distress I cause her.

If she found out, a fight might break out. And if a fight broke out, I might argue that judgment is irrelevant from someone in her line of work. That late nights and bundles of cash don't exemplify the most saintly lifestyle. Then we would both go to bed angry. And truthfully, Santana isn't crying anymore. So I tuck the glass container into my clothes drawer before laying down.

She never says anything when I jump out of bed each night or early morning to puke up a lung, though. "The downfalls of quitting anything cold-turkey," I always explain, should she become curious.

Gradually, however, the trail of smoke that leads to Santana withers away. "If you need to quit, then I should as well," she shrugs. The guilt sets in heavier than it did before.

* * *

I make it a point to hug Santana whenever possible. In the mornings. In between classes. At lunch. After school and right before bed. So she knows how grateful I truly am. It takes a couple or so before she fully relaxes from the embrace's beginning to end.

This morning, though. Just…this morning. I climb out of bed and spot her skimming over papers at the table. In routine fashion, I sneak up from behind and enwrap my arms around her neck. There isn't time to even blink before Santana flinches and damn near flips me onto the table. From the ground looking up, she's terrifying. Short, deep breaths. A demented, torment-plagued look hidden deep within those brown eyes. The facade is broken just as soon as her face falls, apparently recognizing what's happened. "Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit," she repeats, pulling me to my feet.

"Good morning to you as well," I laugh.

She finally draws me in for a tight squeeze. "Are you okay?"

"A little upset that no one told me I was living with the Hulk. But okay, nonetheless," I manage.

We're picking up the scattered papers when I notice that most of them are bills. Just like the ones from my mother's freezer. The apartment lease. Utilities. And a newspaper, flipped to the Classifieds. A handful of job listings are circled. "I can only help if you let me, Santana," I implore. I take a moment to tally the various numbers, and it amounts to far more than a week's worth of tips can cover. "Hell, I bet your parents would even help if they knew."

Santana literally laughs out loud at the suggestions. "No and hell no," she says, removing the items from my hands. "You need to take your time. Focus on getting better."

But I have ulterior motives. The idea of working has already been fresh in my mind. Especially since Santana's squirming at the grocery register gets more painful to watch with each visit. And yesterday, I paid a visit to the Lima Community Center, where Hal, the center's director, stressed their need for a janitor. I figure it's one of those learn-as-you-go jobs. Besides, dance classes are held on the second floor, and even if I can't participate (the prices are a bit steep), watching never hurt anyone.

"What if I already found something?" I ask.

Santana cocks an eyebrow as I go further into detail. The hours are similar to hers, and pay is almost equal. She purses her lips and the eyebrow eventually settles. "This 'Hal' character- he's not some creepy old guy, is he? Because I _really_ don't feel like going back to jail."

I laugh and assure that while he is an older fellow, Hal is the least of creeps. However, I don't mention that it's the first time Santana's openly referred to prison by its name. She usually dances around the word, like it's Voldemort or something. "I'm promise you, if anything weird goes down, I'll hire a hitman. Or take care of it myself," I joke, grabbing the door-side bat.

"Remember when you were so bored with motocross that you tried out for the softball team?" I nod, vaguely recalling the memory. "I was there," she points out.

I say, "Right," and then we're both laughing. At least, until a bout of nausea randomly appears. I bolt for the bathroom, returning minutes later. Santana gives me a suspicious look. The eyebrow again. "The internet says it's to be expected," I insist. "My body's trying to flush out the leftover toxins."

Santana nods her head and begins making pancakes.

* * *

Today, school is no different than yesterday. Scratch that. It's a hell of a lot different. In glee, Quinn actually approaches me and speaks. "Last time I checked, you and Santana weren't on the best of terms. And now you're living with her?"

_Hey, Quinn,_ I think. _It's great to see you, too. Being back in glee is spectacular._ _Ditched the pink hair, did we?_ There are a million snide comments I could make. Instead, I think of Kurt's very unicorn self, and how he would be adamant about taking the high road. "Something like that," I say.

And that's the extent of my return to the choir room. No one else so much as sneezes in my direction. After practice, when I meet a waiting Santana, she takes my books and asks, "Any better today?" I shake my head. "No need to fret. It'll get be-" but she doesn't finish. Instead, her eyes go wide. And when I'm about to assess the situation, an ice-cold sensation settles in overhead. I dare to stick my tongue out, tasting the sweetness of shaved ice that runs down my face.

A figure leans in next to my ear and whispers, "Welcome back, sweetheart." I don't have to turn around. The familiar voice leaves me colder than any slushie ever could.

Santana has other plans, it seems, for her fists ball up. I catch both hands and force them together, coaxing her into scribbling in the palms. A pack of football players walk past, all while she bites her lip until the bottom turns white. "Purple's my color anyway," I laugh, eliciting the faintest smile out of the Latina.

The walk home is dead-silent. Santana appears lost in thought. Troubled, almost. "What's on your mind?" I ask.

She begins to mouth something but catches herself. Seconds pass before she skids to a halt on the sidewalk. "When I was incarcerated, there was a particular system for weeding out the weak inmates. The ones who wouldn't stick up for themselves." Santana pauses. "At any meal, you could walk up and demand somebody's milk. It was all you had to drink throughout the day. Giving your milk up was the death kiss. You were an easy target at that point." She sighs and kicks a blade of grass. "Your only option was to fight back."

I always enjoy listening to Santana, but she gets on these indecipherable kicks of cryptic nonsense, and it throws me. So I ask, "What does milk have anything to do with getting slushied?"

"It's about fighting back, Brittany. I love that you're always willing to turn a cheek, but at some point, enough has to be enough. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" I shake my head. She looks helpless in explaining. "People like Karofsky- they'll bend and bend you until you break. They'll steal your milk if you allow it. Don't let them."

I furiously nod. "Excellent," she says, readjusting the books in her arms. And we're on our way.

* * *

The vomiting has yet to cease. It hits each morning like clockwork. Santana doesn't flinch anymore when I jump from bed at ungodly hours. In fact, every time I return to bed, she merely opens an arm and lets me crawl into the small space.

I'm feeling equally sick on Sunday, when we make the trip to Carey and Bernadette's. Smells of Italian food fill the apartment. In fact, it's spaghetti again. I think it's the only meal Bernadette remembers how to make.

"Brittany," she calls from the stove, gathering me into a tight hug. "You look better."

"I'm feeling much better," I answer.

Santana sneaks behind us, extending her hand to the older woman. It's the same introduction as last time. I'm confused as to why she remembers me and not Santana, who's been coming here for quite some time, but don't question it when we gather around the table.

When Carey and Santana begin clearing the table afterward, Bernadette drags me toward the Christmas room. Time ceases to be as we peruse the holiday collection. Jingles echo throughout. There are so many new items and details I didn't catch on to the last go around. Being in here is so spectacular, that I don't mind when Bernadette approaches me with the same picture of Roz and delivers the same spiel. You'd think that I would be immune to the forgetfulness by now. But to watch the woman speak with such verve- such hope for Roz's imminent return- is absolutely heartbreaking.

As we exit the room, Santana and Carey are laughing and carrying on over the dishes. I realize how long it's been since I've seen such genuine elation in Santana. She throws her head back, releasing the old-Santana laugh. It's a relieving sight. Instead of witnessing her wallow in a perpetual state of worry. Mostly about me, I'm sure. Only when Bernadette speaks am I aware of the trance Santana locked me into. "She's a pretty girl."

"Isn't she?" I ask.

"And lucky to have you," Bernadette says.

"Oh, no. We're no-" but her attention shifts to pestering 'George' for a bath.

I wander to the kitchen, tending to the few remaining dishes. Santana is digging through her wallet, producing two crisp bills that she places in an urn on their dresser. "Careful. You're staring," Carey whispers over my shoulder. I try to laugh it off when she takes a turn towards serious. "Santana told me about your mom. That's shit, dude."

She passes me a plate to dry. "She's just lost," I say, mimicking Santana's words.

Carey looks from me to Santana and back. "Aren't we all?" she laughs, flinging a handful of suds at me.

When it's finally time to leave, Carey merrily flips me a middle finger when I thank George for the meal. Stepping out into the cool night, things seem opposite to the warmth of the Washington apartment. As if reality doesn't exist when you're submerged in spaghetti and Christmas mementos.

"Is it not bothersome? Having to introduce yourself every week?"

Santana shakes her head. "The opposite, actually."

"She remembered me, though," I say.

"You're kind of a hard person to forget, B," she teases.

I'm about to smack her when the pain strikes again. My stomach grumbled practically the entire time, and frequently throughout the evening, but an unshakeable fear slowly ached my bones. Thoughts of Quinn sophomore year. But surely I won't be forced into the lifestyle of nose rings, homeless garb, and Skanks. Surely I was more careful with all twenty- (_twenty-six, maybe?)_ - guys. Surely. This decision is merely precautionary. An effort to narrow the possibilities of my recent ailments. Santana looks hesitant when I veer away from her apartment and start toward the main road. "Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" she persists.

"It's just up the street, Santana. I think I'll be okay."

She huffs. "Call me if anything happens. All right? I'll be waiting up."

This is a trip I need to make alone, unfortunately. The walk isn't much, but I keel over twice in the mile, dry-heaving for what feels like days. I'm drained in reaching the corner drug store.

Part of me wants to take care of the test here. With no worries of Santana finding out. To just buy the Skittles I admitted to coming for and leave with the assurance of all being well. But another part of me is more comfortable with handling business in the security of Santana's apartment. The haven where nothing remotely bad can touch me. So I make my way back toward Lima Heights, silently hoping that Santana is already fast asleep.

* * *

Three minutes. That's how long it's supposed to take before any results. I sit on the toilet seat, my foot tapping away as the excruciating minutes pass. Santana isn't that heavy of a sleeper, and while I'm graceful on the dance floor, sneaking into an ex-con's apartment is a different game.

When my phone starts buzzing, signifying the time, panic sets in. Where I was so sure one hundred and eighty seconds ago, now I can't make myself look. It's necessary, though. For both of our sakes.

Looking on, swells of emotion flood through me. Fear, anger. There is but one person who can diminish both. Who possesses all worldly answers. Who is stronger than any other. One person who can conjure up metaphors for lighters and dairy products. I'm so caught up in the shock that I don't realize when that one person makes her way into the bathroom and whimpers, "Brittany?"

A split-second passes before I crumble, tears bursting free.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note and replies included at the end.**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of it's respective characters.**_

* * *

Hot, salty tears stream down my face, and words refuse to form. Santana looks on the verge of emulating my state. "How could I have been so reckless?" I sob. "I'm so stu-"

"Don't you dare say it," Santana snaps. She kneels on the ground in front of me, both hands on my knees. Her eyes are soft but firm. Conflicted. "Don't you dare."

Santana pulls the test from my hand. Her misty eyes reflect the small minus symbol, and she exhales a sigh of relief before wrapping her arms around my slouched frame. "Oh god," she mutters against my hair, laughing the ironic laugh that only Santana can produce. Whispering, she says, "I _so_ wasn't ready to be a parent."

I'm still crying, though. And it doesn't appear to be stopping anytime soon. Tears of guilt. Shame. Fear of Santana's imminent realization. It comes within seconds, when her eyes shift to the object in her hand and a confused look penetrates her features. "But this. You haven't?"

"I thought I was helping," I manage. "You were so _angry_, and no one at school was making it any better. They would've sent you back if anything happened."

"Brittany," she pleads.

And I proceed to explain every detail. Every dirty night in motel rooms or empty parking lots. Santana's face contorts throughout my confession; her eyes dropping with each account. By the time I'm finished, her eyes are misty and lip quivering. Only when she swallows and sniffles do I say, "I just need to know something. I need to know that I'm not the reason you're so broken. Because fixing you has turned to absolute shit."

Santana lifts my chin to meet her eyes. "You should never worry about fixing me. I'm not broken, B," she assures. And then she's flexing her arms and legs in a robot-dance manner. "See? Fully functional." Only now do we both find the strength to laugh. "I need something, too. I need you to talk to me, Brittany. No more secrets."

Have you ever so badly wanted to believe in something, but can't bring yourself to do it? That's how I'm beginning to feel. My mother's leaving; Santana's estrangement from her own parents; every ounce of anger and heartache she's forced to repressed- all of it comes crashing down on me.

I should be elated at her statement, but much like anything else Santana says, it serves as a mask for something much deeper. Even back when we first hooked up behind closed doors, she denied the events as if someone had a gun to her head. Shielding ourselves from each other and the world has a become a means of survival. Emotionally, at least. Lying and secrecy serve as our only links to the past.

So when Santana asks for no more secrets, I nod my head out of habit. But I'm afraid that if I can realize all of our antics, she undoubtedly can too.

* * *

The vomiting refuses to cease, despite my previous emotional taxation. In fact, each morning is worse than the one before. Piercing stomach pains. A harsh burn that resonates in the back of my throat.

It follows me to school, the illness. Santana makes a point to cut out of class and check on me throughout the day, even though her concerns do nothing from a medical standpoint. I'm tempted to tell her to stay in class, but she would refuse. I'm sure of it. So one day after school, it should come as no surprise when Santana piles me into Carey's car. In minutes, we pull in front of a sign that reads: **Johnston, Lopez, and Smith. M.D.**

I can do nothing to mask my surprise. "He and my mother are out until tomorrow. Don't worry, I checked," Santana affirms. Seeing Dr. Lopez is the least of my worries, however. Visiting a doctor requires certain measures be taken before hand. Like not having a third cup before bed last night.

Santana kills the engine, sealing my fate. "I'm worried about you is all. Besides, I had to cash in a favor to schedule on such short notice." All I can do is nod. While the efforts are a tad eccentric, her heart's in the right place.

After signing in and taking a seat, Santana falls asleep onto my shoulder. She's used to late working hours and early school mornings, but I've realized just how restless Santana has been in bed each night. When the alarm rings, she slaps it with the speed of a person watching the numbers flip, waiting for the moment. A person who isn't sleeping. My name is called in about fifteen minutes, at which point Santana snaps to attention and leads me to a back office.

A nurse comes to run some tests. Things like blood withdrawals and heart rate analysis. Scans from a machine that I have to lie down on. She asks basic questions; I give basic answers. In the time it takes for her to leave and a man in a white lab coat to appear, Santana dozes off once more.

"I apologize for the wait," the doctor says. He's clutching a clipboard. The embroidery on his coat reads: Greg Johnston. "A phone call needed my attention."

Tension sets the mood, and the table I'm perched on gets colder with each painful second that passes. Dr. Johnston meticulously flips through his charts once more before speaking. "I'm going to start by saying that if there was any possibility of a pregnancy, I'm afraid the baby wouldn't have made it."

"How so?" Santana asks. I cower, sensing that the answer is evident.

I feel Dr. Johnston's eyes bearing into my lowered head. "Ms. Pierce, there are traces of alcohol in your system," he explains. I can't stand to look up and make eye contact with him or Santana, feeling our security of secrecy dwindle away. "Now, I would normally chalk this up to a really bad hangover, but considering my charts," he flips to a back page, "far more serious matters are at hand. I've never seen anything like this."

It's obvious that Santana is becoming agitated with the lack of specific information. She sternly spits, "Greg."

He sighs. "Excessive amounts of intake occurring in such a short amount of time has caused a great deal of damage to your kidneys and livers. Your rapid decline in consumption, however, proves just as detrimental." Dr. Johnston appears thrown by his own response. As if it's the answer to a question that possesses none. "I can prescribe some antibiotics and relaxants for the pain, but it seems that the alcohol is our biggest asset. Continuation in small doses until you're one hundred percent tapered off is our only hope, I fear."

All of this feels like one of Santana's confusing metaphors. _Your only savior is the one thing that's slowly killing you_, a voice booms in my head. Even more so, a sick feeling comes with the way he says "our". The idea that trusting a total stranger comes easily, yet Santana and I constantly second-guess each other's motives.

I dare to look at my best friend. Her face expresses anger. An internal war that she's losing. The feeling of our "no more secrets" pact disintegrated in less than a week, undoubtedly. Dr. Johnston ends his evaluation with a final, "I made a phone call earlier. There's someone outside that you need to speak with."

Santana and I both peer through the small window that connects office to hallway. A petite woman awaits, manila folder and briefcase in hand. She looks like Dr. Fletcher, only younger and less hairy.

"I could kick your ass right now," Santana scorns at the doctor.

A moment ago, he stood tall. Confident. Now, he seems on edge at her remark. "It's standard protocol for these types of… situations."

"To hell with your protocol, Greg." She takes my arm and gives me a fearful, unsteady look before we enter the hallway.

The woman snaps to and smiles. "Hello. My name's Angela Maynard with the Ohio Department of Family Services, and I'd like to ask you some questions."

* * *

Nurses and assistants wander by our trio in the hallway, and many shoot curious glances. Angela observes this, for she speaks in a hushed tone while asking the questions. "How long have you been partaking in alcohol usage? And how frequently?"

Santana has been answering on my behalf for the better part of our conversation. On the questions that warrant well-crafted replies. She's been in my shoes before, so I let her continue. "Only every once in a while. She's not a junkie, lady."

Angela's eyes avert to Santana. "I appreciate your concern, Ms. Lopez, but I need Brittany's input."

"What if she prefers to not answer absurd questions?" Santana quips.

"Santana," I say. Her palms extend to either side as her shoulders raise. "To answer your question, Mrs. Maynard, I don't know. A couple of months?"

She nods and jots notes onto a yellow legal pad. "And your mother- she condoned this?"

"No," I say too quickly. "I'd sneak around. At parties, mostly."

Angela shoots me a suspicious glance before relaxing her eyes and gently placing a hand on my knee. "Brittany, I understand that all of this is very confusing for you. And you probably feel obligated to protect your mother. But I, we, believe her circumstances are too…extreme for a minor. My notes say that you'll be eighteen in just over a month, at which point you'll be free to make your own decisions. Until then, we might consider making other living arrangements for you."

Santana's forearm tenses underneath my right hand. She chimes in, "Susan is away on business most of the year. Brittany lives with me."

It's evident that they're both equally fed up with the other's presence, so Angela flashes a wicked grin. "Great," she says, collecting her belongings and standing. "Then I'll be by sometime within the next two weeks. You know, to make sure it's a suitable environment."

My right hand begins to ache in suppressing Santana. She's offended by the remark, I'm sure. When the social worker finally bids us a good afternoon, I look to Santana. "What am I going to do?" It even sounds desperate to my own ears.

The forehead wrinkle reappears in an instant. "I'll take care of it, B." And she retrieves her cellphone, walking into the quiet solace of Dr. Johnston's office. Though it's unclear as to who Santana's speaking with, neither of them are happy. A yelling match ensues for the better part of twenty minutes. I sit and wait, fidgeting at the thought of being forced away from the apartment, McKinley, and Santana. She eventually returns, shaking her head and sighing. I barely hear her mutter, "How far we all come."

I'm about to ask what the frequently-repeated phrase means when Santana looks up to me with a forced smile and asks, "You in the mood to pay Roz a visit?"

* * *

We make the trek to see Roz, though my mind isn't once in the discussion. I mostly just let her and Santana catch up, while I stare at the ticking clock on the wall. Tick. Tick. Tick. Like the hands of fate bringing me closer to foster care with each passing second. To being torn away from all I've become comfortable with.

Santana allows me to remain lost in thought well into our journey back to Lima. It's random when she finally speaks, but the invitation catches me entirely off guard. "Let's go to dinner. Just me and you. Like old times."

It's a lovely gesture, but we're both well aware of our financial status. "We're broke, Santana," I retort. "Every last penny went into this month's rent."

"I've got an idea. Have some faith, will you?" she laughs, patting at the steering wheel. "And with what we're about to experience, I say we need all of the fun we can get."

I nod, purely because seeing Santana in a mood like this is a rarity. Even if it could be nothing more than a façade. A charade. Even if I'm oblivious to her intentions. This _ultimate plan_. "Whatever happens later," I begin. "It's going to be that bad, huh?"

Now she laughs the ironic laugh. "Absolute hell."

We finish the ride in silence, pulling up to the community center thirty minutes later. I'm gathering my things and mentally preparing for another night of laborious cleaning, when Santana pokes her head across the seats. "None of this is because of you, okay? Bad things happen to good people every day."

I smile one of understanding. One of unabashed joy. Santana has enough on her plate. Too many commitments to uphold and things to worry about. My happiness shouldn't be one of them.

A solitary job permits me to get all of this out of my system. All unhappy thoughts are expelled into sweeping, mopping, and toilet scrubbing. _My name is Brittany Susan Pierce, and I am a happy-go-lucky person_.

No amount of positive repetition can shake Santana's words from my memory, though. And into the early hours of morning, I'm forced with the impossible question of answering:

Am I one of the good people, or merely another bad thing that's happening?

* * *

Santana is being patient with me. She uses a fake i.d to purchase me a bottle of vodka every week. (It would be problematic, should she get caught. But I don't think she appreciates me asking homeless people for their help.) And with whatever funds remain after tending to our basic necessities, my prescription is filled. Even though I'm terrified of yet another sedative, Santana insists that the doctor isn't wrong.

So I take them. Santana continues catering to my every need, as if I'm some terminal patient on the brink of death. Our work schedules clash, so the only quality time we spend together consists of snoring and drooling. (Though Santana still denies both.) I try to persuade her into buying cigarettes again because of recent stresses. And every single time, she denies it too.

Most nights, Santana sneaks in later and spends more time in the bathroom. Spanish ramblings ensue behind the closed door. When she exits and crawls into bed, I always pretend to be asleep. By the time morning rolls around, Santana acts as if nothing occurred the night before. So I do, too.

After glee practice one day, I pull Mr. Schuester aside. He's McKinley's only Spanish teacher, so his services are at least somewhat employable.

"I was wondering if you could help me," I say. "What exactly does _prometa_ mean?" It's one of the few words I've held onto from Santana's late night sessions.

He places a finger to his butt chin for a moment. "Promise. From the verb _prometer_, meaning 'to promise'," he finally answers. "Why?"

"No reason. No reason at all," I mutter, rushing to meet Santana in the hallway. I don't bring up our conversation the entire walk home. There are so many questions that I can't ask her, and it kills me.

* * *

"Friday. Our old date night," I call to Santana, who's getting ready in the bathroom.

"Not a date," she calls back. Though she sounds firm, I can hear the smile in her voice. "But not everything has to change."

I'm fiddling with a heel strap when I ask, "How'd you get out of work, anyway?"

She walks out of the bathroom, shrugging. "Said it was an emergency." Her sly grin speaks volumes. Santana is obviously pleased with her excuse.

I'm too dumbfounded to respond, however. The Latina is clad in skin-tight black pants and an airy, red blouse. Her hair is curled and she wears massive hoop earrings. It's the most remotely 'Santana' thing I've seen her wear in a very long time. She eventually smirks, giving me the 'Are you going to say anything?' expression. "Wow," I say. "Red has always been your favorite color. I think it's mine now, too." Santana will swear up and down that she doesn't blush, but when I pull her in for a massive hug, heat radiates from her cheek to mine.

I hold her wrist the entire walk to what, from the outside, looks like the Breadstix Selena Gomez might dine at. An uneasy feeling settles into the pit of my stomach. Santana knows how much money we _don't_ have, yet she's insistent that we eat here. Per the hostess, there's a reservation made under 'Lopez'. This means that either a) Santana has a lot of weight to throw around Lima, or b) she made this reservation more than a couple of days ago.

We sit in the room's center. When the waiter comes about, offering their newest wine selection, I wave him away. Santana appears torn. "I hate to say it, but maybe you should have a glass," she says. "Something to last you until later."

I shake my head, tired of wandering around in a haze. Tired of dependence. Tonight is special. Something I want to experience one thousand percent sober. Something to remember. I even order the shrimp, which is ten times the size of Breadstix's. And ten times tastier, actually. We carry on pointless small talk, laughing at whatever dumb joke the other makes. Being myself around Santana is distantly close, if that makes sense. Like a warm memory that you can feel. It's as if someone reached back in time, cut free this exact moment, and plastered it to the present.

After all of the food has disappeared from our plates, Santana summons the waiter and requests our check. Only now do I notice the gears in her head churning. She looks to me with honest eyes and asks, "Do you trust me?" I nod. Of course I trust Santana. Even on the days that I don't. For our hearts and motives hold far more integrity than our mouths ever will. "Then follow my lead," she smirks, grabbing my hand and standing us both up beside the table. In the packed restaurant, no one's attention averts from their respective meals. Which is probably a good thing, considering that I'm wearing heels and if we're about to sprint out of here, every ounce of surprise is ideal.

I'm mentally preparing for the mad dash when Santana gets down on her left knee, not once letting go of my hand. She shoots me a quick wink before others catch on and the once noisy restaurant falls silent. Santana clears her throat and begins.

"In the second grade, I first laid eyes on a girl beneath the playground slide, crying over a wad of matted fur nestled in her arms. A girl who insisted that a frail, dying kitten be nurtured back to health. Who insisted that the animal become our class pet. A girl who insisted he be named Lord Tubbington.

"I first laid eyes on a girl who endured her classmates' taunts and torments when she claimed that this cat was actually a unicorn who merely lost his horn. A girl who insisted that the horn could be reclaimed by way of a tender hand. I've never admitted this to anyone, but I was constantly in awe of that girl. In fact, I still am."

Santana has always been a born-performer, feeding off of an audience's energy and channeling it into the act. But this takes the cake. The glimmer in her eyes; the way her voice occasionally trembles. Even I'm convinced.

She takes a deep breath before continuing. "B, ever since I first laid eyes on you, I knew you were something special. Someone that I did not want to face a single day without. From our first kiss on my parents' roof, and until the last that we share, I still believe it to be true. You see, what made that girl so special was that she had no idea. No idea of how beautiful she was. No idea that she was a unicorn, too.

"We've been through hell and back together. Had curveball after curveball thrown our way. And despite whatever future bumps in the road exist, a few things will always remain certain. _Mi promesa._ I promise to never forget that little girl sobbing underneath the playground slide. I promise to cherish the tender she extended to my once frail, dying heart. I promise to protect her from the evil second graders of our world."

This elicits a collective chuckle throughout the restaurant. I glance from table to table at beaming faces. Even one lady is wiping her eyes in the corner.

"And most importantly," Santana begins, squeezing my hand. "I promise to love you as I did then. Unconditionally and with every fiber of my being. Brittany Susan Pierce, would you make me the luckiest girl in the world, and-" But I jump the gun. I'm nodding my head profusely, as if this were a real proposal, evoking a genuine response.

Various coos of approval sound throughout the room. People clap, some even whistle. Santana is beaming with pride at her performance when someone shouts from the back, "Kiss her!" Others join in, beckoning us on.

I'm hesitant, but Santana doesn't once drop the act. She grabs my neck, stroking both cheeks with her thumbs, and gently presses her lips to mine. Erupting cheers are drowned out in those few seconds. I know her only intention is a free meal, and none of this is meant to be romantic, but this. _This._ It's a complete one-eighty from my freak out at Mom's house, where it then was just a girl helping her best friend. When time begins again and the noise of cheering resurfaces, Santana pulls away, wearing the same innocent look of pride.

Behind her, our waiter swoons. He's clutching our bill at his chest, tears welling up in his eyes. "Young love," he whispers. Santana and I are still careful, not wanting to let on too much. Then again, part of me is convinced that a great portion wasn't acting at all. At least, that's what part of me is starting to hope is true. When Santana reaches for the check, our waiter pulls it away, shaking his head. "It's on the house. Our gift to the happy couple."

We both thank him and exit the restaurant arm in arm, handfuls of people calling out their congratulations as we depart.

* * *

"Does that line always work?" I ask when we're down the sidewalk, well out of hearing distance. "Evil second graders? Really?"

"Oh, shut up," Santana laughs. "Let's just say that I'm in at least four committed engagements, and none of them received that kind of applause. So, yes. Evil second graders." And then we're both giggling. I'm not so worried about who the others were, because none of them are here, strolling through the night on Santana's arm.

Bright lights jut out from a small building just ahead. In the window, I see an advertisement for half-priced milkshakes. My stomach grumbles for frozen dairy goodness. "What's dinner without dessert?" I ask, detouring toward the diner's front door.

Santana seems to tense and argues, "We've got ice cream at the apartment."

"No blender, though," I retort. "Pleeeease?"

She still looks apprehensive. I'm about to cut my losses and accept the failure of extending this dream any longer, when Santana's body language suggests a surrender. I jump up and hug her again. At the counter, we both order the menu's largest milkshake. I- chocolate with gummy bears. She- plain vanilla. Leave it to Santana to get the most boring dessert ever in the history of boring desserts.

The more we converse, the easier it becomes to see that Santana is fighting like hell to reassemble her guard. To hoist the bastard wall up again. But doing so is hard while sporting a milkshake-mustache. It's amusing for the both of us. When ending times comes yet again, I yawn, worn out from such an eventful evening. I'm about to pay at the register when Santana catches my arm. "Maybe we should do it again. You know," she shrugs, "because free stuff never killed anybody."

"It's eight bucks," I say. "Surely it fits into the budget."

"It's also two boxes of Lucky Charms. Labor for cereal removal not included," she responds.

I look around, surveying the crowd. After all, they were our major accomplices at the other restaurant. And if there's one thing that performing with glee has taught me, it is that an engaged audience can make or break a performance. Santana does the same, chiming in with, "It's kind of a dead period. The drunks won't roll in until about two." Then she catches herself and dismisses, "I would assume."

There is a decent-enough group, though. So we run through the proposal exactly as earlier. The spiel. The emotion. And even though all of four people clap and no one shouts from the back, Santana kisses me anyway. Tastes of cool vanilla melt away the previous week's worries.

I sneak off to the restroom shortly thereafter. In returning, I spy Santana at the register. She's handing money to the cashier. "So dates constitute emergencies these days?" he jokes. "I'll remember that the next time I call in."

Santana laughs and shrugs. "It was important." She pats the counter before saying, "I'll see you Monday."

* * *

A pit stop by the apartment later and we're walking along the main road. Santana refuses to let me carry my own bags, let alone help with hers. Wherever we're going is still a surprise, but I wrap my hand around her wrist anyway. It's more one-sided than holding pinkies. Santana never refuses, though. So maybe it's not as selfish an act as I believe.

We make a turn when I say, "I had a great time tonight."

"As did I," she responds, staring blankly into the distance.

Nearing our final destination, I realize why Santana's mood has taken such a hit. We could only ride the high of tonight for so long before reality came crashing down. "Are you sure about this, Santana?"

She lets out a tired laugh. "Am I ever?" And then we climb the steps, me never letting go of her wrist. In fact, sheer nervousness has transformed it into a vice grip. Before knocking, Santana takes a deep breath and looks to me. "But who knows? Maybe they'll let us sleep on the roof."

* * *

**crazybeautifulandshitty: Well I certainly appreciate that. I'll do my best to provide as much drama as possible. And I hope your hopes of no Karofsky have been suppressed after this chapter, lol.**

**Adrimarie97: Thank you so very much! I do my best to update as frequently as possible without compromising the work.**

**StephaniieC: I assure you, the idea of a pregnant Brittany upsets me just as much as it does you. Lol.**

**4evamuzic: Any need for mental preparation is a compliment in my book. Thanks for the review, lol.**

**bodybroke: Firstly, thank you for taking the time to provide such lengthy, detailed insight. It means the world. I agree as far as the innocence aspect is considered. Subtlety is fine in that sense, but to blatantly perpetuate it is different. (I'm hoping to develop and play off of it throughout this piece.) **

**Truthfully, I could never handle a rape situation. With any character, let alone someone as childishly fragile as Brittany. Her mother's alcoholism and mental abuse/abandonment will probably be the best I can provide in that sense.**

**I did what I could with the throwing up without being too obvious, so thanks for that. Hopefully, after this chapter, your fears have disappeared.**

**A/N: A major thanks to everyone who takes the time to provide feedback. I didn't realize it would mean this much to me, but it does. So I appreciate it.**


	10. Chapter 10

**StphaniieC: Like I said- a pregnant Brittany irks me as much as the next person. Thanks for going to such lengths to review.**_  
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**another anon: Haha, I most certainly appreciate that.**

**luceroadorada: Fluffy? FLUFFY? Lol, I suppose that on the scale from fluff to smut, this definitely leans to the former. I also agree that your friend is a little fucker (lol), and certainly appreciate you taking the time to read/review.**

**LoneGambit: Dude. Thank you so very much for your review. Honestly, it lets me know that at least one person actually reads a substantial portion of the excess wording in a fic. I'll most definitely do my best to keep up with the theme. Again, thank you for the wonderful compliments.**

**Author's Note: I apologize for this update being later than usual. The Fourth really put a damper on things. Especially since there were beers and well-mixed drinks that needed my attention. I hope everyone enjoyed the holiday. Updating will never take this amount of time again. (Side note: A special shout-out to The Wonder Years for their late-night inspiration.)  
**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

* * *

_Knock. Knock. Knock. _We stand and wait, wind rushing in every direction, riding out what is left of the most magical night known to man. It's easily become one of my favorites. But then again, the night is still young. I only realize this when the door barely opens, much like the last time I came looking for Santana. Two daunting eyes stand against the house's internal darkness. After a grueling standoff, it finally swings open, revealing a very petite Maribel Lopez.

The older woman wears a look of mock surprise, placing both hands on her checks. Mouth wide open. She even calls behind, "Honey, come here! There's someone at the door who looks exactly like our daughter."

Whatever joy I mentioned earlier has dissipated in a mere second. Santana must realize this as well, for she huffs and shifts underneath the weight of our luggage. When Dr. Lopez appears, he immediately plays into Maribel's charade. "Funny," he says, grabbing his chin and pointing it toward Maribel. "She does look an awful lot like Santana. But, wait. No. This can't be," he mutters, shaking his head. "The real Santana is doing fine on her own. Our daughter doesn't need us. Remember, sweetheart?"

"You've got it, dear," Maribel snickers. "Besides, when did her trusty sidekick start looking so sickly?"

Santana pulls us forward, pushing directly through her parents. "Around the same time they began making brooms in your size," she spits.

Dr. Lopez laughs this time. "We're just poking some fun. Welcome, girls. We've prepared beds. Santana, you can take the guest bedroom. And show Brittany to your old room."

Santana follows me upstairs, dropping my bags just beside the bedroom door. "You've got to be kidding me," she mumbles, surveying the barren area. "I didn't expect the Hilton, but an air mattress? Sweet hell. We can move down the hall, if you'd like."

_We._ I giggle, wanting to mention that my mother and I spent most nights sleeping on the ground. A blow-up mattress is about as upscale as it can get. But when Santana starts preparing for bed, I venture to say, "Maybe we should play by their rules. Just for the next week."

"Should we?" Santana pauses and asks, looking slightly deflated. "They never specifically said that we _couldn't_ share a room," she continues pleading. I quickly realize that Santana has just begun to allow herself the occasional pleasure, and I'm snatching it away. So when she mutters a final, "Yeah. Sure thing," I catch her arm. Of course, knowing just how bad of an idea this is.

"Maybe you could sneak out of the window come morning?" I option. Santana's face transforms into a smile and she nods, clicking the door's lock before resuming our evening rituals.

At the apartment, we both keep to our respective sides of the bed. For the most part, at least. Santana on the left. Me on the right. But tonight, Santana drapes her arm over my stomach and clings on as if I might disappear in the night. Her face buried into the back of my neck. Every ounce of me screams to turn over. To look into her massive, brown eyes and assure that I'm not going anywhere. That I probably never will. Once again, though, a crumbled, frightened resolve wins out. The same fear I get every time she chokes out an "Of course" to a profession of love. A fear of scaring Santana away.

So I let her cling, knowing that aside from perennial secrecy, fear might be the only thing keeping us within arm's reach.

* * *

By morning, sunlight pokes through the far window, burning into my face. We're both still succumbed with tiredness when a voice cracks, "Breakfast is ready." My eyes shoot open, locking onto Maribel, who's twirling a set of keys around her finger. Santana merely grumbles when I give her a hard nudge. A few violent shakes later and she rolls over, hair splayed in every direction. Maribel still stands in the doorway. When Santana recognizes the situation, she groans and buries her head back into the pillow.

Downstairs, smells of exotic breakfast foods fill the air. I sit across from Dr. Lopez, who pours himself into the morning newspaper, while Santana prepares coffee. The meal ensues, equally filled with my embarrassment, pointless small talk, and growing tensions between the Lopez trio.

Afterward, Santana insists that she accompany me to work. It's the weekend, so I don't have to wait until tonight after the center closes. She's only looking for an excuse to get out of the house, but I let her tag along anyway.

Since a handful of classes are in progress, we can't blare her iPod over the studio speakers. But it doesn't stop Santana from reaching into the arsenal of songs she's committed to memory and belting them from upstairs. Her voice booms throughout the corridors and well into individual rooms. I sometimes lean against a wall and bask in the electricity of it all.

This carries on for the better part of three hours until our mops finally meet in the studio room. An individual space set aside for private lessons. Complete with a much smaller stereo system, a ballet barre, and slick, hardwood floors. Every dancer's dream. I goofily skate across the ground, mop in tow. "Dance with me, Santana," I say, extending a hand.

She shakes her head and hops onto the barre, which I'm surprised doesn't break under her full bodyweight. "I'm more content in watching."

So I cradle the mop handle like a dance partner and move across the room. Santana hums a tune for us to move to. We do until I'm out of breath, leaning against the barre. "Your mom seemed pissed this morning," I mention in between exhales.

Santana scoffs. "Menopause does that to a person."

In the walk home, I mentally prepare for dinner alone with her parents. I could probably just follow Santana's lead and go to her work, but she's still trying to hide the whole "I'm a waitress" thing. Besides, her parents are doing me a solid. The least I can do is share a meal with them.

Tonight, when Maribel finishes preparing some rice dish, I say, "Thanks a bunch for helping me out. It really means a lot."

They both look painful in smiling, like when you have to use the bathroom but can't. Maybe I should have skipped dinner. We cover the basics as far as the social worker is concerned. My story about Mom. Living with Santana. The works. I leave drinking and visiting Dr. Johnston out of the narrative. Dr. Lopez and Maribel's faces don't budge throughout my entire spiel.

Before coming here- each night, as I pour through the apartment's front door and into bed, Santana meets me with two white tablets and a tall glass. Where most people would expect a cup of warm milk or water, I know to expect vile liquid. It's the same routine in the mornings. A routine that is becoming more of a chore with each passing day. An annoyance. A regiment that Santana is adamant I keep to. If my time machine would ever start working, I'd go back six months from now and give Mom a firm "no" at her offering.

I could always tell Santana "no". Mention how the toilet beckons after like clockwork. But it's not that easy. Though we both received the same medical advice, it seems that two different messages came across in Dr. Johnston's office. Santana focused on the quitting aspect. The potential for its "detrimental" effects. Her concerns are strictly warranted by the doctor's orders. Stabbing pains in my abdomen, however, don't adhere to any external code.

She'll know if I don't medicate before bed. I have no idea how she does, but she does. And makes me double up in the morning if I don't. Since I finished off this week's bottle last night, (and slightly out of boredom) I decide to go searching. Dr. Lopez has a liquor cabinet in his study. I only know this because Santana used to raid it when I'd come spend the night.

I finally ninja my way into the dimly-lit office, finding that the cabinet's latch isn't sealed. So I have my pick of dark and white liquors, opting for a darker kind. All systems are a go when something catches my eye. On Dr. Lopez's desk lies a long, yellow legal paper of some sort. At the top, in bold letters, it reads: **Official Testimonial Annulment.** Dated nearly two years ago. I barely skim over it, spotting the italicized word "recant" multiple times.

I'm about to read more thoroughly when the overhead light flips on. Dr. Lopez stands by the switch, eyes tearing into me. "What's going on in here?" he asks, probably knowing the answer.

I clutch the bottle's neck behind my back. "Nothing," I tremble. "Thought this was the bathroom." Which is obviously a lie. I've only been to this house a million times.

"Run along," Dr. Lopez huffs, flipping the switch and stepping outside.

Time in the Lopez house is measured by days endured. Considering we've been here for all of one and it feels like a lifetime, minutes creep by at a painstakingly slow pace. Mostly, I lay on the air mattress for hours on end, waiting for Santana to scale through the window. Tonight, when she does, I don't mention earlier.

* * *

En route to Carey's apartment, a sickening feeling hits me. Probably the aftermath of my run-in with Dr. Lopez. Shot nerves. Queasy stomach. Dry throat. I clutch onto Santana's arm, feeling as if I might be carried away by a swift breeze. Smells of spaghetti once again penetrate our senses in the Washington home. It's odd, though, for after a quick hello with Carey, Bernadette gestures to me with a quizzical look. "George, who is your friend?"

I suddenly realize the issue. Bernadette has been doing so well about remembering, that it's hard for me to grasp when she suddenly can't. During the meal, the older woman wears the same face I get when my stomach is upset. The same face Santana's parents had at dinner. But I don't mention it.

Afterwards, I help with cleaning up when Bernadette doesn't invite me to her Christmas haven. "You're pretty fluent in legal jargon," I mention to Santana as we slave over the mess.

Santana dips her hands into the sink. "I'm no expert," she dismisses.

"Recant, though," I explain. "You know what that means, right?"

A plate crashes into the water and suds fly every which way. Santana grimaces, eyes fixated straight ahead. "I have no idea," she mutters, not once looking to me. "Why would you ask such a thing?"

"No reason," I shrug. "Heard it on Law and Order. Figured you might know."

In returning to the Lopezs', Santana's parents are arguing over something. Which is a long shot, for it's undoubtedly about last night. My snooping. When the door opens, however, they both put on smiles and cease to bicker.

The muffled quarrels resume once we're getting into bed. Santana pulls the covers over my head and says, "Just wait underneath here. I'll be back shortly," before tearing off downstairs.

* * *

After glee practice, Mr. Schuester calls me over to the piano, where he is reviewing over a handful of potential Nationals set lists. "We're in need of another member for Nationals this year. A stronger voice to tackle "Edge of Glory". You think Santana might be interested in a comeback?"

"I could ask," I say. "But there's no promising she'll agree."

Mr. Schue smiles and nods before saying, "Fair enough."

Outside the choir room, Santana waits like every other day, only her face is more somber than usual. "You're especially cheery," she points out. I feel my face contort at the comment. "Don't tell me you forgot what today is."

Nervous as to what I could have forgotten, I shake my head. It's not her birthday. Not my birthday. An of anniversary of some sort, perhaps? Hopefully the trip to wherever will jog my memory.

It doesn't take long for the jogging to begin, for a weight is dropped onto my chest at the realization. _How could I have forgotten?_

* * *

Cemeteries generally creep me out. But today, in regard to my lapse in judgment, Lima Memorial Cemetery is especially unsettling. We venture down the winding path, in between a sea of weathered headstones. When we near a block of marble reading "Pierce", I have to take multiple deep breaths to keep my composure.

Though it has been nearly ten years, visiting my dad's grave is still an emotional experience. I'm thankful that Santana regularly accompanies me on the trip. I would have never forgiven myself for forgetting.

We stand, soaking in the gentle breeze that flows past, staring at the pair of headstones. My dad's and Lord Tubbington's. When he died, it took an hour of violent sobbing for the owners to agree to allowing a cat's remains be buried alongside humans. Though with the shenanigans Lord Tubbington regularly pulled, he was as human as anyone else.

My words are never as eloquent or put-together as they should be for speaking graveside, so I typically keep quiet. Santana always helps, saying a few nice comments to Dad. She's even cordial with Lord Tubbington. Eventually, though, she breaks my trance and asks, "A penny for your thoughts?"

Since lying and fear have become our mutual ground to walk on, I figure pain can only strengthen the bond. The three are like our own communal Unholy Trinity. Besides, misery loves company, right? If that's the case, then I suppose Santana and I are each other's best bet. Equally miserable company. So I decide to spill, hoping that a momentary confession of burdens will somehow make the visit less dreary. Or calm the emotional whirlwind that engulfs me. Thoughts of Bernadette. Dr. Lopez and Maribel. Angela, the social worker.

"I've been thinking about my mom a lot recently. About where she is. Where she isn't. How she just took off without a goodbye. Her funeral could be tomorrow, and I would never know. She'll be here soon enough, I suppose. I really try to feel upset about thinking like that. Any kid should, right? But as much as I try, I can never seem to shake the relief that overcomes me. Every single time I think of my mother, buried six feet in the ground, a massive weight lifts from my shoulders."

I pause, waiting for a vocal tremble to surface. It doesn't. Instead, I feel a cold bitterness take over. "And then I see your parents. They're still around, sure, but harbor so much malice. Toward you. Toward me. Over what _I _did. It just makes me think. Which is worse: someone who doesn't bother sticking around or people that do, but subject you to all of their internal frustrations?"

The sun reflects off of Dad's headstone. Only now does a knot form in my throat. I inhale deeply, waiting for the gray slab to take on some sort life form. For my father to dig from the ground, laughing as if the past ten years have been one massive practical joke. "I just feel like the weight of everything is pulling me under," I confess. "Life is drowning me one fucking day at a time."

Santana shifts her gaze to match mine. She's biting her lower lip again. And a single tear falls down her cheek before she snaps to, trying to shake free of it. "Hey," she says, reaching just below my mouth and tilting it to the clear blue sky. "Chin up, and maybe you'll drown a little slower."

* * *

Wednesday night, as Dr. Lopez and Maribel's post-dinner confrontation begins, I lay in bed and look to Santana. Searching for answers that her face usually projects. She's let me have a third cup tonight, purely because of their arguing and how difficult it is to fall asleep with such distractions.

Santana's about to head downstairs for an intervention when I catch her arm. "Let them work through it."

"There's no need for all of _this_," she explains, shaking her head. "Some things never change."

I swallow, considering the territory that I'm about to venture into. No Man's Land. This is always the primary concern when walking on eggshells around other people. The speaker is exposed. Bare and vulnerable to the reality of their situation. In constant pain. Reminded with each step. Each jagged, fractured truth. I'm fully aware of my run-in with Dr. Lopez, and how he's yet to mention it to Santana. Besides, I'm in the business of giving second chances.

"Maybe they have, Santana. Give them some credit. They're still here, you know. They're changing. Or trying to, at least," I say. It's undoubtedly the last thing she wants to hear.

Surely enough, she looks entirely betrayed by my observation. And as expected, her features tense when she snaps, "Oh, like you've always been the best judge of character?"

It's reflexive but still stings. She could be referring to a mass of people, but I'm afraid that she only means one. The very one who has become nothing more than a ghost in my life. That fact hurts, too. But defensive-Santana doesn't recognize it. Defensive-Santana has tunnel vision. A narrow mind. "Need I remind you that this was _your_ idea? I didn't ask to come here," I return.

"_You're_ the only reason we had to," she sneers, pointing a finger in my direction.

Santana's temper would thwart off anyone else, but I know better. Fueled by the extra glass, I stand firm. "Are you trying to hurt my feelings? Because you're doing a damn good job."

This is enough to soften Santana's expression. Make her step back and reevaluate where the conversation is going. "I'm not trying to hurt you, B. It's just-" she stops, mulling over the next lines. "I'm not always going to be around. But people like my parents- they will. They'll put on a sincere face to hide the fact that they are sucking the marrow out of everything decent in this world. They're conniving. I'm just trying to open your eyes, while you're busy being stubborn and insistent on keeping the damn things closed. That's all."

"They're wide open," I explain. "And maybe I'm seeing more of certain individuals than I'd like to."

Santana's face drops. She huffs, extends her arms, shrugs, and then storms downstairs. I follow, shouting after her. "Quit running from me, Santana."

Dr. Lopez and Maribel carry on below, and Santana chimes into their grudge match while actively participating in ours. Heads dart from side to side, mouths quip in all directions. Then the doorbell rings, silencing each of us.

* * *

Never before have I seen a group of people collect themselves so quickly. Maribel straightens her shirt before opening the door, ushering Angela inside. I knew the visit would be a surprise, I just had no idea it would be this…surprising.

We settle on the couches and the meeting goes along well enough. Actually, it goes off without a hitch. For every question the social worker has, Dr. Lopez and Maribel have the perfect response. Toward what I assume to be the end, like icing on the cake, Maribel throws in a, "Any friend of Santana's is family to us. We love having Brittany around."

Angela eats the line up, closing her manila folder and signaling for me to follow. "You're a lucky girl, Ms. Pierce," she explains, standing in the doorway. "Most kids in your position aren't so fortunate."

I smile, feeling that 'lucky' might be a stretch. Tolerable? Sure. When she leaves, I turn to find that my tolerable roommates have evacuated the room. Everyone's sulked off to their rooms. Santana passes me on the stairs with her work bag and doesn't so much as breathe in my direction.

It shouldn't surprise me that later, there is no shuffling through the window. No dip in the mattress. So I grow restless. Tossing and turning because of everything I currently lack. A bodily tingle. Cloudiness of mind. The meeting completely sobered me up, making a chance at sleep nonexistent. And there's no protective arm around my body. Even pulling the covers over my head works to no avail.

The fidgeting becomes so irritating that I jump from bed and venture downstairs. More careful than last time I went on a late night adventure, of course. It's quiet and eerily dark, mind a lone lamp in the den's corner. Maribel sits in an armchair, skimming through a book. I cough once, not wanting to frighten the old woman.

"I- uh. Thanks again for tonight. With Angela," I ramble.

Maribel shifts her eyeglasses and places the book down. "Take a seat, Brittany," she says, patting the opposing recliner. When I do, she uprights like earlier. "I want to be very clear on something." Her words are cutting, making the room suddenly feel ten times colder. "Nothing from these past few days has been for _you_. No. You're being here was purely on Santana's behalf. For our stupid, stupid daughter."

"I don't understand," I mutter. "I-"

"Thought that Santana's friends are our family. I vividly remember. Make no mistake," she begins, "my daughter has far too much going for her. Potential. Had, at least, until you wandered in. Don't believe that for one second, we're going to step aside as you further ruin that potential."

I'm too speechless to respond. My silence must be taken as acceptance, for Maribel says, "Go to bed, Brittany," and reaches for her book.

* * *

Mr. Schuester keeps pestering me about Santana after practice. Making our need for her powerful voice sound urgent. Each time, I merely explain that the timing's bad. I don't have the heart to confess that I can't get a word across to her right now. Much less ask for a favor.

I walk home and to work alone, passing the Friday night diner on my way back. As hoped, Santana is inside, tending to a table, and sporting the biggest faux smile I've ever seen. Today passed especially slow, so I bee-line for bed, praying that sleep will speed things along. Once again, it avoids me. For the longest time, I yank the covers overhead and pretend that Santana will be back shortly.

Only she never does. Around three in the morning, I climb out on the roof, silently praying that she's out there, too. I'm alone. That is, until shadows form on the ground below, just outside of Dr. Lopez's office. Thankfully, he smokes cigars, thus leaving the window cracked open. I perch on the ledge, craning my neck to listen as three figures battle it out.

It's all in Spanish for the first little while. "Fine," Santana eventually spits, leaning over Dr. Lopez's desk. She clicks a pen and furiously scribbles on a long, yellow document. The same one I was caught looking at Saturday night. "I've signed the fucking papers. Are we free to go now?"

"It doesn't do any good now," Dr. Lopez admonishes.

Santana cackles. "Of course it doesn't, Dad. And it wouldn't have made any difference two years ago. Because I would still be with Brittany, and you'd still be in here, pouting over everything that could have been. Am I right?"

He takes a deep breath, much like Santana does when her blood rages. "As a parent, it's difficult watching your child make a mistake."

She cuts him off again. "A mistake?" Santana's voice is elevated even higher now. "I made a _choice_. Tell me, exactly what was this mistake? Was it taking the fall for her, or simply being with Brittany?"

A smaller voice chimes in this time. I assume it to be Maribel. "What your father is trying to say is that maybe Brittany isn't who she used to be. She's got a lot of baggage, Santana. And we're afraid that it's only going to drag you down." She then mumbles softly in Spanish before finishing with, "Come back to us, mija. Come home."

Santana drops the pen on the desk. "We'll be gone by morning," is the last thing I hear.

* * *

I rush inside and dive back into bed. In seconds, the door creaks. It closes. The guest room's door shuts. More shuffling. I peek from underneath the covers and watch as billows of smoke appear outside the window. I rush downstairs in hopes the adults are asleep and raid the freezer, hoping that upstairs, the gray clouds remain. They do.

"I thought you were quitting," I say, poking through the window and onto the roof.

Santana takes a long drag. "I did, too." Another drag, this time deeper. "I thought we were fighting," she says.

"Seems like you've had your fill of it. A peace offering," I say, extending a fudge popsicle. Santana nods and we playfully bump the frozen treats together, simultaneously saying, "Truce."

After a few silent minutes, she chuckles and examines my offering. "Dad's going to flip when he notices these are missing. Bastard loves his fudge pops."

"To hell with him," I reply too quickly. "Your mom, too."

Santana looks down. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough," I admit. "So much for no more secrets, huh?"

"Brittany, I-"

"Was just trying to help," I finish. Having been in that position before, I know how difficult it is owning up to your actions. How, somewhere deep in your conscience, withholding information is easily rationalized. You want so terribly to believe that what you're doing is best for everyone, at some point, you convince yourself of it.

We sit in silence again, gazing at lone dots trickled across vast blackness. Santana lights another cigarette. "To recant something means to withdraw," she begins. "To take a statement back. Dispel a previous affirmation." My mind runs with the snippet of detail. Grateful for anything, really, but careful enough as to not pry too far too quickly. But if Santana isn't willing to provide further clarification, maybe I shouldn't be so hell-bent on digging.

"You're always saving me," I say. "Always helping out. Like a superhero." This elicits a smug grin from Santana. "You could wrap that apron around your neck, like a cape. Very diner-chic."

Santana chuckles and shrugs, taking another drag from the cigarette. "Fine, fine. You caught me."

"Hell, I'm just glad that you're not a stripper."

She coughs now, shooting me a questioning glance. Okay, maybe those weren't the best choice of words. But she's a good sport, for she says, "J.B.I. keeps giving me shit for the other night. Keeps calling me 'bride to be'." And then we're both laughing on the roof, into the welcoming abyss. Just like old times. "No worries," she says, putting the cigarette out. "Jew Fro knows what's good for him."

"I sure hope he does," I say, getting up. "Well, I do believe that there is medication to be taken." I then squat next to Santana, soaking in the remains of yet another realm we've created on this ledge. "And since we're allies again," I whisper. "Just know one thing. Don't worry about proposing any time you feel the need to kiss me."

Santana nearly chokes on air as I climb back through the window.


	11. Chapter 11

**luceroadorada: I certainly appreciate it. Thanks for reading and the review.**

**StephaniieC: You most certainly should, lol. I love the way you sign off on each review, by the way. "See you soon". Haha. Thanks for the review.**

**adryrules99: Thank you for reading and reviewing it. **

**Author's**** Note: I've got far too much time this week and quite a few ideas, so the updates will probably be frequent. To all of the new followers and former ones, thanks for taking the time to read. God bless.**

**Also, for the sake of spoilers, all replies and notes will be included at the bottom of each chapter.**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

* * *

"You really should ask her, Brittany," Mr. Schuester urges. "A voice like Santana's will guarantee that we place at Nationals."

This is becoming a routine for the glee instructor. Every day, right after practice, he corners me and delivers the same lines. And while I agree with everything that he's saying, the timing has to be perfect when asking Santana for favors. Fresh off our five-day stint at the Lopez's, we're trying to acclimate back into a life of normalcy at the apartment. It's been a stressful week. So I say, "When the timing's right, I will. We've had a rough week, Mr. Schue. I hope you can understand that."

He nods considerately, greasy curls following suit.

* * *

I hurry to the apartment, sure to change from my school clothes as quickly as possible. This is only because after fourth period, I found a note taped to my locker instructing that I do so. _Get dressed. Going to Carey's for a surprise. I'll pick you up at five._ The words cycle through my head.

Santana barrels through the door at precisely four fifty-six, grabbing my arm and pulling me from the bathroom mirror. "We've got places to go. People to see," she announces as we rush downstairs and across the courtyard.

"It's not even Sunday," is the only protest I manage before we're speedily moving back upstairs, two steps at a time.

The lack of Italian fragrances hits me before the scenery does. Hanging from the ceiling are various banners reading "Happy 70th". A massive chocolate cake on the countertop reads the same. Christmas music plays faintly in the background. "But I'm only seventeen," I inform Santana.

"It's Bernadette's birthday, you ass," she laughs, placing candles in rows atop chocolate icing. "Carey's bringing her back from the doctor's office in a few minutes and suggested that we do something nice."

Within minutes, Carey ushers Bernadette inside, astonishment filling both of their faces. Bernadette clasps her hands over her mouth, eyes shifting from corner to corner. She notices me and smiles, pulling me into a hug. "Brittany. So good to see you."

Santana is forced to introduce herself, as always, but doesn't seem to mind. She's too busy being proud of her handiwork. Which, if I do say so, is quite the setup. We all gather around the cake, lighting the candles and letting Santana take the reins on singing. It's all very relaxed. Carey wanders into her bedroom and returns with something wrapped. When Bernadette tears into it, her eyes well up.

"Wishing you a happy birthday from the Cayman Islands. Mom, I hate that I can't be there. Look forward to seeing you soon and hope all is well. Love, Roz," she reads aloud, clutching the framed postcard to her chest. Looking to Carey, she says, "I love it."

As Santana escorts Bernadette into the living room, I lean over to Carey and ask, "How'd you manage that?"

She laughs and grabs my arm, pulling me to one of the hallway closets. Inside sit columns of framed postcards, each bearing the same message. In the same handwriting. "I keep a few different types, should she get suspicious or ask questions. But they're all there. When she forgets about today's, I sneak it back into the closet for next year."

"What if she finds them?" I ask.

"Then she's upset for all of one- maybe two-days," Carey explains. "I can handle that. But to feel like your only child didn't remember your birthday? That takes a bit longer to get over."

I nod in agreement, understanding how lonely I would be if Santana didn't surprise me with something every year. Last year was the most difficult. You see, my mother is a lot like Bernadette. She has trouble remembering the important stuff. "Speaking of birthdays," Santana calls, maneuvering into the hallway. "I think someone I know has one coming up."

I'm about to refute when Bernadette comes along, insisting that I follow her to the back room. I oblige, allowing myself a Christmas indulgence. The stories are the same. About Roz when she was little. The picture of her parents. But Bernadette doesn't seem as lively in telling them. A bit off-kilter. Eventually, she clutches the postcard to her chest and squeezes her eyes tight. Bearing into me, she asks, "Why won't they let me leave? Why won't Roz come back already? I hate it here. I'm ready to go home."

Bernadette looks on the verge of tears, and I am completely lost as to what exemplifies an appropriate reaction. Neither Carey nor Santana burst into the room, saving me from the confrontation. So I panic, ditching out and rushing into the living room just as soon as I can. Carey must notice my alarm, for she immediately darts toward Bernadette. "Is everything okay?" Santana asks, catching me in her arms.

My head is spinning a million miles per hour. Everything seemed to be going great. So perfectly. Your run-of-the-mill birthday celebration. All smiles. Presents. Decorations. Cake. Then she caught me off guard, and I freaked. I eventually level out, taking deep breaths. "Great," I lie. "It's just really stuffy back there."

We're soon gone from the apartment per Carey's request. Wind blows through the setting sun. Small trees rustle all around. It's seemingly perfect weather, but my mind can't tear away from how everything appeared perfect earlier, too. And then it shifted to horrible in a matter of seconds.

"She's doing better, isn't she?" Santana asks. "Carey said the doctors were extremely pleased with Bernadette's health."

"A completely different woman," I half-heartedly agree.

Minutes pass. "You didn't answer my question," Santana chimes, nudging into me. "Any idea of what you might want for your birthday?"

I haven't given it much thought, but an idea presents itself. So I shake my head free of all negative thoughts, flash a toothy grin, and say, "I've got something in mind."

* * *

"No, no, no. A thousand times no," Santana says.

"Oh, come on," I beg. "We could invite everyone to come and watch. Bernadette. Carey." And then I'm laughing, considering just how few friends and family we have. "Okay. Maybe just those two. But still."

We're both getting ready for school, and I've dared to mention standing in at Nationals to Santana. She's ignoring me at this point, so I persist. As she pulls on a hoodie, I say, "Come sit in on one practice. And when you see how much you've missed it…"

"I highly doubt that'll happen," Santana brushes off. "But if it'll get you off my ass. One practice."

But I'm already squealing and jumping, wrapping my arms around her. "You won't be sorry," I assure. And then we're off, trekking toward school. The sun shines a bit brighter today. The flowers more pungent in smell. It's one of those days when you just _know_ things are starting to look up. I'm restless with excitement throughout class until the last period bell rings. Since it's Santana's study hall, I don't think they'll care if she skips to participate in glee.

The time comes. I don't know what I expected, but entering the choir room provides something I most certainly have not. Much like when I first returned to the club, individual pairs of eyes beam at Santana. Registering the shock value on each face, I assume that Mr. Schuester didn't mention his change in plans. "Class," he announces. "I've asked Santana to return and help us at Nationals. She'll be taking the lead on 'Edge of Glory'."

Mercedes's eyes widen. "Oh, _hell_ no," she sing-songs.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Wheezy," Santana returns, dropping into a chair on the floor, as opposed to our old back row spots.

Rachel clears her throat, making direct eye contact with Mr. Schuester. "What Mercedes is trying to say is that Santana hasn't performed in a very long time. I believe I speak for the masses when I say that she's far too out of practice to tackle such a difficult arrangement. We have plenty of capable performers who work hard every day."

Mr. Schuester starts up with, "I understand the concern, but-"

Santana crosses her arms and throws her head back, cutting him off. Taking no tie to respond, she spits, "It must have hurt, right?"

"This is no time for Sapphic pick-up lines, Santana, though I do appreciate the gesture," Rachel says, gazing up to Finn with longing eyes.

"You're a competitive girl," Santana scoffs. "And the last time I checked, losing to Grumpy for title of 'Dwarf With the Biggest Nose' doesn't set well with most aspiring Broadway starlets."

Since it seems that everyone wants a dig at the group's newest addition, Quinn pipes up with a, "You can't just come in here and torment everybody. Rachel included."

Santana squints both eyes and cranes her neck, as if listening to something off in the distance. "Does anyone else hear a baby crying?" She extends both hands, looking around the room. "Anyone else got something to say? Wheels? Lips? What about you, Finnocence?"

No one mutters a word.

* * *

Tonight, as Santana cooks dinner, I hear the slightest hum from beside the stove. Then the rare chorus line. I hide away, listening before poking around the corner. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but was that Lady Gaga?" I ask in mock surprise.

The Latina playfully points a wooden spoon at me. "Careful. Word on the street is that I'm something of a loose cannon."

We both laugh. "Today _was_ eventful, huh?" I ask, wrapping my arms around her.

Santana continues stirring and then tastes the concoction. "To say the least," she huffs. "Couldn't you have just asked for a puppy? Or anything else? Anything at all."

I'm to explain how my last birthday puppy request didn't fly over so smoothly with Mom when a cellphone rings. Santana looks at the number, confused, before answering and listening intently. I try to make out various words, but the entire conversation is muffled. After a minute, Santana hangs up. She looks dumbfounded. Caught off by whatever Mysterious Phone Person said. "Parole officer," Santana shrugs, returning to the stove.

Nervousness sets in. "And?"

"Meetings are being pushed back. Once a month, now," she explains. Is this good? The meetings were formerly bi-weekly, an she's action especially blasé, so I take it as a decent sign. That she's not in trouble. "Said if I'm diligent about coming in and keep a clean record, they can get the parole dropped a few months early."

"That's good, right?" I ask. She nods, dipping into the pot and tasting our dinner again. "Then we should celebrate. Go out and paint the town red."

Santana laughs and cocks an eyebrow at me. "Should we?" And then I'm nodding like an idiot.

The post gallon-of-soup tiredness kicks in before we're up from the table. I leave Santana with the dishes, moving sluggishly to bed. I'm beaming in front of the bathroom mirror like an idiot, too, and don't cease until the familiar tune from earlier surfaces just outside the door. Santana sneaks in from behind, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist and settling her chin on my shoulder. "So I'm thinking we should go out this Friday. To celebrate," she murmurs. "I don't know if you've heard, but I'll be a free woman soon."

And then she places a kiss to both the back of my neck and shoulder. I must seem taken aback by the gesture, for Santana cocks her eyebrow again. "You said I didn't have to get on one knee anymore," she laughs. "But I will if necessary."

It seems that grinning like an idiot is the only thing I know how to do anymore.

* * *

After the most peaceful night's rest, I wake up to an empty left side of the bed. Santana reenters with the usual large cup and two tablets, humming like last night. "Someone's excited," I chuckle.

She kneels onto the bed, placing both items on her nightstand. "Am not," she dismisses. And when the Latina hints toward the medication, I shake my head.

"I don't want to anymore," I admit. "I'm tired of always feeling sick. I'm tired of feeling like I'm running at twenty-five percent capacity."

"And you're going to keep feeling that way if you don't listen to the doctor," she chides.

But I keep shaking, as if continuously moving my head from left to right is the best bargaining option. Santana's face tenses at the revolt. She sighs before looking to the stand and back to me. "I'd rather have you at twenty-five percent then not at all."

I don't have the heart to tell her how terrified I am. Of falling ill. Of being vulnerable to the itch again. We both remember how bad I was. And with everything that's finally looking bright, I don't want to ruin it. And this "tapering off" business, it's doing nothing to help the cause.

"Trust me on this, okay?" I implore. "Nothing bad is going to happen. I promise."

* * *

Today is blessed with yet another fun-filled glee practice, complete with snide remarks from both sides of the classroom. Mr. Schuester signals me to the piano again. I've recruited Santana back into the New Directions, so I can't imagine what else he might want. The look on his face says that whatever he needs isn't good.

"We've got a bit of a problem, Brittany," Mr. Schuester begins, fiddling with the piano keys. While they're spotless, the entire instrument is painted a horrendous purple color. "Some of the parents aren't comfortable with Santana performing at Nationals."

I fade out, trying to put a finger on who complained. Maybe it was one of Rachel's dads. They both seem wound up pretty tight for men of their age. It could've been Artie's mom, but she's far too relaxed for such a low blow. I'm about to start pleading Santana's case. She has seemed so uplifted recently. Like someone with a purpose. Like someone who's returning to the one thing they were born to do. "She's been preparing, though," I protest. "And we just found out that her parole is about to be up. So that shouldn't be a concern for much longer."

Mr. Schuester frowns. "It doesn't negate the fact that she's done some distasteful things. I'm truly happy for her, but in light of what happened…" his voice trails.

_Of course_, I think. _It always comes back to this._ "And I suppose you want me to tell her?" I snap. "Inform her that sometimes, hard work and a good attitude aren't enough to be part of _glee_ club?"

"She hasn't exactly been Ms. Cheery the past few days."

I mimic Santana's ironic laugh. "It's _Santana_, Mr. Schue. She's trying to figure out this just as much as everyone else."

He sighs. "I'm so sorry. I should have seen this coming."

"I'm sorry, too," I spit, hurrying out of the choir room.

I feel seven years-old again. Back when I went through a year-long magic phase. Every night, I would spend hours practicing tricks. Pulling stuffed rabbits from a top hat. Slyly rearranging a deck of cards. One act in particular stands out from the rest.

Snatching a loaded table cloth seemed so effortless on television. The difficulty cloaked under behind-the-scenes visual trickery. The magician always pulled it free, dishes remaining intact. My attempts always proved less fortunate. Each time I tugged, plates and bowls came tumbling down.

Santana is the table. A sturdy, reliable frame. Once fresh and new, but now bearing scuffs and scratches gained over the years. Many of which are unseen to the naked eye, for a beautiful, more appealing cover masks each. More importantly, so many delicate items hang on her balance. That's the thing about yanking the cloth away from my best friend. Everything around her comes crashing down.

If this is the "growing up" business Finn keeps rambling about, count me out.

On the journey back to Lima Heights, there is an obvious change in Santana's mood. She's kicking at blades of grass. Frolicking around. Being subtly giddy, even by my standards. "I've been thinking, and you were right," she chimes. "We should invite Bernadette and Carey. Lord knows they could both use a night out."

"Why don't we hold off on saying anything? The competition isn't for a couple of months," I suggest.

She laughs. "So? The news will at least give them something to look forward to."

I don't believe that I've ever seen my best friend so worked up. So optimistic about something that isn't physically right in front of her. Not fully prepared to burst that bubble, I veer in another conversational direction. "You really care about her, huh? Bernadette, I mean."

Santana nods without hesitation. "She's a lot like you, B. Living in her own little world. The woman can't remember her granddaughter's name, but is willing to cook for total strangers every weekend? That shit's special," she chuckles.

"Even if she doesn't know who you are half of the time?" I ask.

"Even if she doesn't know," Santana chuckles. "Besides, it's a fresh start every time."

The afternoon air is suddenly denser. Harder to breathe in. "Then I'm sure her and George will be excited to watch us perform," I mutter.

* * *

Come morning, I'm not sure if the twinge in my stomach is from my recent bout of courage. The cold-turkey ploy. Or for the conversation with Santana that lies ahead. When Santana reenters with a chocolate chip muffin, she me on the cheek before placing it in my hands.

Before parting to our first period classes, I blurt out, "Let's skip glee today. Before the workload becomes too much. For old time's sake." It's rambling and sporadic and Santana can surely see through the front.

"We've got to rehearse," she says. "You need to nail the routine and I've got a high note that needs fine-tuning. I even considered doing run-throughs with Hobbit."

_Damn it. _"You'll be fine. Trust me on this one," I answer, disgust filling my mouth with each word.

Santana wavers at the proposition, but nods anyway. The heart-breaking, trust-filled kind. A kind that could make the evilest of people hate themselves. "Sure thing, Britt. We'll meet underneath the bleachers."

I spend the entire day preparing. Running through possible scenarios. Santana's handful of reactions. My responses. There are seventeen million ways of approaching the situation, and I can't settle on a single one. By the time the bell rings, signaling our rendezvous by the football field, it feels as if a wad of cotton has been shoved down my throat. I zombie through the halls, delaying the painfully inevitable for seconds longer.

Rounding the corner, Puck catches my eye and darts over. He looks frantic. "Ms. Pillsbury's office. Now. Santana's flipping her shit."

So I take off, sprinting down the hallway, mentally vowing to roundhouse whoever broke the news to her first. She's pacing around the room, shouting at Mr. Schuester and Finn, who stand as barricades in front of the door. Mr. Figgins is outside, looking on through the glass. I pause, witnessing as something terribly wrong unfolds, for Santana resorts to writing in the palm of her hand. A comfort I haven't seen her partake in for the longest while. Ms. Pillsbury stands petrified in the corner. Evidently there isn't a pamphlet for an in-office meltdown.

Ms. Pillsbury's eyes widen with relief when I enter. Santana repeats, "I need to go. Please, just let me leave." Then she looks to me. "Tell them, Brittany. Tell them to let me go."

"I'm sorry, Santana. Mr. Schuester gave me the news yesterday, and I-" but Ms. Pillsbury shakes her head, cutting me off. If the issue isn't Nationals, then what could possibly be the matter? Everything's been going so well. Her parole. Glee. Santana pours into a seat, bending over the table where we first played cards together. Back hunched. Body racking hysterically.

I lift her, grabbing hold on both shoulders. "Look at me," I coo. "What's wrong?"

She merely breaks into sobs once more, clutching a cellphone at her chest. I try prying it away. Unfortunately, Santana's vice grip is like any other. I hold on to her, allowing tears to soak my shirt before assessing further. Crying like this is a stretch for her. "You have to talk to me," I urge. "I can't help if you don't let me."

Santana drops the phone but doesn't move. Eventually, the crying slows, but she keeps shaking her head. "Bernadette," she chokes out. It's strangled. "Something's happened."


	12. Chapter 12

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters._**

_Warning: You probably don't want to read this chapter with your mom in the room._

* * *

Death is often described as a thief in the night. I've never really understood that comparison. At least, not until now.

You see, it's the burglary of all mental sanctity. All thoughts of long, prosperous lives vanish. The idea that our loved ones are immortal is dispelled. A heart-wrenching swarm of shock, anger, and despair slowly tear away at everything we thought we knew. Swiftly and stealthily, the disease robbed Bernadette of her memories. Swiftly and stealthily, it robbed us of Bernadette.

We're trapped in the waiting room. "Only immediate family," the desk nurse drones.

"She's more of family to us than our actual relatives," I argue. Santana remains doubled over in a corner seat, slowly rocking back and forth.

The nurse continues answering phones as if I'm no longer standing there. With a cutting glance, she huffs, "You'll have your turn when they're finished preparing the body." Her tone is ice-cold. Entirely removed from the situation.

"This isn't a game, lady," I sneer. "We're not waiting around for a turn." But this provokes no response.

I mindlessly wander across the room, staring and quietly envying the scores of hopeful faces. Their loved ones must stand a chance. Coming out of surgery or suffering from curable ailments. Then I look to Santana, who is the poster child for quite the opposite. Radiating hopelessness. A statue of a ghost of a person I knew only twenty minutes ago.

I wish that there was something to say. Anything to do that might lessen her pain. Unfortunately, in our race to Lima Memorial Hospital, she made it explicitly clear that no such thing exists.

Leaving McKinley, Santana wouldn't mutter a word. Every attempt at affection or consolation was immediately shut down. When I extended a hand to her wrist, she snatched it away. My words were met with lingering silence. Carey sped over to pick us up, and I was forced to take the wheel, for Carey was a wreck and Santana refused to budge.

Now, in the room of ringing phones and crying babies, I'm forced to watch Santana swallow her heartache. Watching her lose herself publicly would be alarming enough. But to sit and witness someone so blatantly refuse their struggle to be heard is plenty to destroy the strength I'm trying to emulate. It's like expressing sadness has become one of life's simple pleasures, and Santana merely cannot allow herself such indulgences.

Two hours of waiting later, an assistant fetches for us. White, sterilized hallways project the intensity of a black hole. The further we delve inside, the less likely it seems that we'll escape. One. Two. Three rooms and we screech to halt. I dare to peek inside. Cold and lifeless, Bernadette rests on a white-sheeted bed. Santana's lip quivers and nothing more.

We line up bedside, the three of us. Staring blankly at our lost friend. Never again will she remember my name. Never again will she forget Santana's. Never again will I visit her Christmas room or eat homemade spaghetti or hear the same story about Roz. Here, within a sea of white, the Land of Never is born. Maybe Peter Pan got his inspiration in a hospital.

A chaplain comes in to say a prayer. We're asked to join hands, but Santana's falls slack in mine. Like she should be lying down instead of Bernadette. Shortly after he hugs Carey and leaves, a team of aides retrieve the corpse. What's left of it.

When Carey drops us off at the complex, Santana leads me through a back route. From the parking lot into an alley, winding through a bundle of housing units. Only when we reach the apartment do I notice that Bernadette's home wasn't passed along the way.

* * *

Santana won't get out of bed, much less go to school. I do, allowing her to grieve by her own devices. In solitude. Lonely solace. Granted, Santana has never struggled aloud. She internalizes all troubles. Recluses within herself. I don't expect now to be any different.

I want so badly to reach out. To assure her that, in spite of losing Bernadette, everything will be okay. It's terribly difficult, however, to convince another when you don't even believe what you're preaching.

School passes by in a blur. A messy emulsion of dulled, faceless voices. In glee, no one mentions her name.

I make a pit stop for vanilla ice cream before heading to Santana's, but she refuses to accept the offer. Instead, the apparition that is my best friend floats into the kitchen, racks through the cabinets, and leaves empty-handed. This happens eleven times throughout the evening. I keep count, praying that each "next" time, she'll do a Willy Wonka front flip and say it's all a prank. Of course, the time never comes. So I resort to hoping for the sound of strangled cries to flood out of the bedroom. To affirm that deep within a weakening frame, Santana still remains. That time doesn't come, either.

* * *

Santana's beginning to break free of her funk. And by "break free", I mean disappearing at random hours of the day. Most afternoons, I return to an empty apartment. And it remains solely inhabited until around midnight, when Santana stumbles through the door. Reddened eyes. Frayed hair. It's a sight that I'm all too familiar with.

"You're drunk," I scold, provoking the Latina's ironic laugh.

She grins dumbly. For a moment, it resembles Finn's gassy-baby face. "Nope," she giggles, breathing heavily into my face. Oddly enough, there isn't a trace of alcohol.

Santana brushes by, nailing my shoulder. And does so every night for the next week. The same accusation. The same smug decline. I'm not sure which is has become more bruised- my shoulder or ego.

And so tonight, as she stumbles in at one, I trail her into the bedroom. "I understand what you're going through, Santana, and-"

"No. No you don't," she slurs. "You can't possibly understand how _this _feels."

"You're right. Losing loved ones is foreign ground to me," I say, trying to remain calm. Despite the obvious overlook of my past. Dad.

But Santana starts laughing again. I'm evidently the funniest person in the world. "What's wrong with you?" I ask, peeling an eyelid back. Before she snatches away, I catch a haunting glimpse of everything that's lacking. Though seeing into someone via eyeball is reserved strictly to metaphor, it's terrifying just how much suffering breeches the aesthetic divide. How little there is. Absence. Distress. A deprivation of the very liveliness we all possess.

"Nothing's wrong, Brittany," she snaps. "I'm the peachiest peach in the world of peaches."

A hunch exiles me to the couch tonight. But sleep doesn't come. Not with thoughts this persistent. So I channel them toward the only logic that got me through many other restless, lonesome nights. _She'll be back to normal. She'll be back. Santana always comes back._

* * *

"Who did it?" I snarl. No one so much as bats an eye. Mr. Schuester's mouth begins forming a rebuttal when I put a hand up. "No. I need to know who complained about Santana helping our sorry asses."

Finally, someone clears their throat. I scan the room as a blonde head rises above the rest. "I did," Sam confesses.

I'm caught off guard. Just as I was with Bernadette's off-handed birthday confusion. "Some of us need this competition," he explains. "And it didn't feel like Santana's heart was in it."

Mr. Schuester rushes to grab the fist I've subconsciously balled up. "None of them know," he mutters. "But I understand. You're both going through a lot right now. Take some time to cool down. Go be with Santana. She needs you more than we do."

So I stray from the choir room en route to Lima Heights. Nearest the exit, I catch J.B.I. gathering things from a locker. "Has she been into work?" I desperately choke out, hoping work is where Santana spends the late hours. Wide-eyed behind thick glasses, he shakes his head. I walk slowly back to the apartment, a gut feeling telling me that Santana won't be in.

Midnight is when I decide to throw on a jacket and pair of shoes. To head off into the night. Quarantined inside a never-ending game of cat and mouse. As I enter the living room, the door knob turns ever so slightly. It takes Santana a moment to come inside, nearly tripping over the small ledge bottom-most her front door.

"Where did you go?" I ask.

"Out," she answers, plopping onto the couch and instantly lighting a cigarette. We sit in tense silence before she's nodding off, dropping the lit piece onto the ground. I stomp it out, a potent dark circle forming atop beige carpet. Santana doesn't recognize the err, but snaps to attention when I shake her by the shoulders.

"What's gotten into you?" I spit. Even with my bout of shortcomings, not once did I pour in at ungodly hours. Hammered off of my ass. The only issue being that she doesn't reek of liquor or marijuana. "Where is my best friend?"

Santana hiccups. "Right here." And her features turn to stone. A curtain of bitterness falling over her eyes, forehead, and mouth. She struggles to sit upright, but gazes at the wall intently and without blinking. It's a minute before she speaks. "I used to believe in stuff, you know? Used to have dreams. Goals. Aspirations for something different."

I sit on the floor next to the couch, sensing an ambiguous rant on her part, similar to the others. "But what for?" she asks, voice raising an octave higher. "A life free of disappointment? Or the notion that one day, I can run fast and far enough to escape all of _this_?" Santana extends a hand, reaching out and grasping the air. She laughs when nothing is trapped inside her palm. "Not anymore. For the future is nothing more than a setting sun, nestled just beyond the hill and welcoming to our blind chase."

She practically sings the next lines. "And all of today's tomorrows are nothing more than false promises. Held captive by previous wrongdoings. Those who have fallen short of our standards, and others that we have done wrong by. Victims of yesterday."

I should feel comforted by the fact that she's being cryptic again. Philosophical, even. Every time I drank, it was hard enough walking to the bathroom. But the malice behind each word wields me from such thoughts. The way they fall from her mouth, dripping with hatred.

I'm sheepish in telling her about glee, but feel that an inebriated heart is suffering enough. Any further news won't hit as hard. So I mutter, "I guess now isn't the best time to tell you, but Mr. Schue said you can't perform with us at Nationals. With what happened."

She laughs her ironic laugh once more before saying, "Icing on the fucking cake."

Tonight, Santana doesn't go to bed. Instead, she passes out on the couch. So I venture into our former room. Knowing that with the little sleep I'll manage, tainted dreams of Mom and watching Santana creep along the same broken path will reign supreme. After all, the dream is about the only consistent detail of these past few days.

Surely enough, I'm startled awake at three o'clock. Staring at the ceiling, I ask to anyone that's listening, "Where is my best friend?"

* * *

Santana is becoming stir-crazy in the apartment, so I invite her to work with me. She reluctantly accepts. We go through the motions, tending to each custodial need of the community center. Santana looks beat by the time our mops connect in the center of the dance studio.

We mosey around the room in silence. That is, until Santana clears her throat and props a mop against the wall. "Can we talk?" she asks, sounding one hundred percent different from two days before. Less slurred. I nod.

She reaches into her bag and retrieves an orange bottle. The very bottle that was filled to the brim a week ago. I know this only because it was prescribed to me by Dr. Johnston. "Funny name- pain killers," she laughs. "Because they do nothing of the sort."

And suddenly everything makes sense. Her erratic behavior. The absence of alcohol remnants. The hysterical giggling at seemingly unfunny things. The shame broadcasted in her body language. I'm about to remind her of the phone call. Of the parole she could be freed of early with extreme adherence to the rules set in place. And how, with a slip like this, it could vanish in thin air.

"I haven't been fair to you, Brittany," she begins. "But some good has come of my selfish behavior. Folding into myself. Because it's made me do a lot of thinking." Santana pauses, taking a deep breath and rapidly batting her eyes to the ceiling. "And what I've realized is…" but her voice trails.

I grow impatient, waiting for her to muster an ounce of courage. "Just say it, Santana. Whatever it is," I urge.

But she merely looks to the ground and shakes her head. Like someone who's mad at themselves. "How far we all come from ourselves," she mutters under her breath. I'm about to ask what the frequently repeated phrase means when Santana walks to the stereo, plugging in an iPod. A lone guitar begins playing. She extends a hand, and I accept, drawing closely in. "You're stronger than I ever was," she whispers before singing.

_My ship went down, in a sea of sound. When I woke up alone, I had everything_, she hums into my ear, leading our slow dance across the floor.

_A handful of moments, I wished I could change. And a tongue like a nightmare, that cut like a blade. _I don't dare to look at Santana while she sings. For the pain would be too much. Instead, I focus on our closeness. The second nature of dancing.

_In a city of fools, I was careful and cool. But they tore me apart like a hurricane._

_A handful of moments I wished I could change, but I was carried away._

Safe. It's the only emotion coursing through my body right now. Comforted by Santana's strong hands. Held in tact just so long as we keep moving. The tune remains simple; the words speaking volumes. Only when she sings, _Give me therapy. I'm a walking travesty, though I'm smiling at everything_, do I look up from Santana's shoulder. Two eyes remain shut tightly.

The point is to keep moving. Swaying in sync across the waxed floor. God forbid the song stops or Santana grows tired of singing. I try focusing on the lyrics, for the Latina's song selection reveals far more about her than any confession could. Shortly after the music fades, we slow to a halt. I stare at Santana, who stares back. Complexity expressed across her face.

"I missed this place so much," she says.

"The community center?" I ask.

"This place," she mutters, squeezing me closer. "Right here."

So when Santana meets her lips with mine, it comes as a total surprise. And when I return with equal fervor, it's even more surprising.

We stand in each other's arms, slipping from this world and into another with each shift of the kiss. At one point, her tongue tickles across my upper lip, which opens a bit wider until the once-gentle kiss transforms into teeth and frantic moving.

She walks me backwards, only stopping once my back meets the ballet barre with a soft thud. In one swift motion, she reaches underneath my legs and lifts until I'm sitting atop the furniture. An icy mirror against my back does nothing to cool the heat that courses throughout our exchange. Breaking from her, I breathe, "Maybe we should stop."

"Should we?" she quickly responds. I'm struggling to point out her intentions. Our first time, which was ages ago, was fueled by lust. Frantic and rushed. While this string of previous moments shares many characteristics, the driving forces behind our sporadic behavior remain unclear. That is, until Santana bears her eyes into mine and mumbles, "Please, B. I just…I need to feel _something_."

Santana was terribly wrong in deeming me the strongest of our pair. For someone that possesses such will power would put an end to her advances. End this charade. They might pull her into a firm hug, instead, and coax the sorrow from her bones. Suggest that we go to the apartment and discuss everything that plagues her soul.

I, however, am nowhere near strong enough to push past Santana's pleading, sunken eyes. In fact, I'm no stronger than the handful of pills she resorted to days earlier.

In the spirit of being weak, I give in. Providing necessary consent with a simple nod. Diminishing all progress we've made at first resealing our friendship. Sex was never the focus. Never my motive for seeking out Santana. In all honesty, I just wanted my best friend back. But like Coach Sylvester said when she wanted to shoot me from a cannon: sometimes you've got to sacrifice to get what and where you want.

If the past is any indication, her needy admittance serves as enough consent to know that there's no turning back. I gaze into Santana's eyes, allowing the realization to set in. For her to both recognize and reminisce in our zero-to-sixty habits. Especially considering that we haven't so much as barely kissed, and the two were only warranted by a jeering audience. She nods to herself, blinks with extra verve, and lifts my tank top overhead. Thus ensues a stomach attack. Trailing open-mouthed, sloppy kisses over each individual ab.

Our significant height difference has never proved problematic and continues to be of no issue. For Santana extends, meeting me halfway when our mouths reconnect. It's frenzied. It's hurried. It's messy and ununiformed and probably the worst timing possible. But since my judge of appropriate timing went to shit with glee, it seems to be just our style.

So when Santana breaks away- leaving me whimpering at the loss of contact- and pulls her hoodie off, I don't put up a fight. She folds the sweatshirt and places it on the ground, turning on a heel to press her mouth back onto mine. I'm then in the air, being gently lowered to the floor. Santana cradles my neck until it meets the makeshift pillow.

A neck assault begins. Nips and bites nearest my throat, then shoulders, then collarbones. Each so fueled by obvious pain and heartache, that there will assuredly be marks left. Again, I don't complain. I do nothing to thwart her advances. Like Santana said, we both need to feel something that isn't tainted with emptiness. So I crane my neck, allowing full access. Santana is diligent in visiting every inch.

Her hands have yet to move, though. They remain glued to the floor on either side of my head. In fact, she holds firm in hovering excruciatingly close. I grab both hips and force her down, eliciting a sigh of relieved, hot breath.

"Santana," I breathe in between kisses, latching onto her arms. "You're allowed to move."

She looks at me as if I'm speaking French. Expressing a snippet of foreign information. It takes a moment for carnal override to kick in, and then her left hand moves slowly over my stomach. Then to my chest. With each singular motion, Santana's eyes widen as if she's never experienced a fraction of anything this intimate. A faint smile flashes across her face before disappearing.

Only now do I feel a tickle at the waistband of my sweatpants. And where Santana was confident- so sure- about beginning, here she hesitates. Two eyes cut into mine. They're empty again. Hollow. Devoid of any emotion, it feels. Then entirely covered with mist.

"Hey," I coo, stroking her cheeks with my thumbs. Much like she did when we kissed at the restaurant. "Are you crying?"

"I'm just really happy," she whispers. _Lie_.

I take hold of her left wrist, leveling the hand on my lower stomach. "Do you still trust me?"

"Unfortunately," she laughs.

So I nod. And she nods, too. We're both sprawled out over a hardwood floor in the middle of the night. Nodding.

In fact, I'm so caught up in moving my head up and down that the feeling of a hand as it begins to run through me is overwhelming. In an instant, it's all too much and equally not enough. I reach through Santana's arms, clutching the back of her shoulders for dear life. She used to be cocky in this respect. Knowing what kind of effect she's always had on me. There is no arrogance. No pride. Santana just clamps her eyes shut, silently reveling in the moment.

I, on the other hand, am in no position to wait. Not now. The heat is too consuming. The feeling of Santana's body heat radiating in tandem with mine is too teasing. I embarrassingly and in a sweep of wanton need start writhing underneath the Latina. Searching for any form of friction.

The response is two fingers quickly pushed deep inside. Santana stifles our moans by again planting her lips to mine, forcing my head back down. And then she's slowly rocking in and out, like a docked boat in the harbor. Back arched. Carefully riding out each wave.

Hooking up with those guys was much different. Rough. Careless. Selfish. Here, however, on the dance floor, Santana is gentle. Rocking against her own hand. Acting as if I might snap in two at any moment.

The ecstasy is about to be short-lived, I fear. Because the tension building up at my stomach's lowest point becomes too much to ward off any longer. A heartbeat forms in my gut. One second. Two. I count to five before breaking. And _oh shit_, do I break.

In fact, we both fall over the edge at precisely the same instant. Raspy, guttural moans releasing simultaneously, representing every word we've never been able to say. Santana's upper body collapses on top of me, breathless. It's a solid five minutes before either of us budges. When Santana eventually rolls next to me, she gasps, "Well, that was…"

"Embarrassingly quick," I chuckle.

"Cut me some slack," she half-heartedly teases. "Try going an entire year without _that_, and then we'll talk."

I shift closer to her. "Done that. Good sex, at least." Santana sighs loudly at the memory of my previous endeavors. My leg quakes as I rearrange our bodies, allowing my head to rest on the crook of her arm. I allow her to fade into sleep, thinking about the song and of every chance I had to question Santana about her feelings. Of every time I was entirely too clueless to ask. Too wrapped up in my own emotion that I neglected hers. And when sleep threatens to overtake me, too, I inwardly vow to never allow such selfishness again. To prevent the lines of communication from ever becoming so fractured.

Santana is the first to wake. She nudges my arm, whispering, "Brittany, wake up. I think someone's here." Light creeping in through the window is enough to orient my senses. Faint scuffles fill the hallway. We both jump up, retrieving clothes from various spots in the room. On account of just losing shirts last night, redressing takes no time. Just as soon as my arm pokes through the tank top, Hal pokes inside the studio.

"Brittany. I didn't think you'd be in until later."

"I came early," I say. Santana coughs. "We both did." Another cough. "She helped." And it's the last straw, sending the Latina into a coughing fit. Hal looks pleased enough, nodding, and leaving the room.

* * *

A mass of black. Sullen faces making their way past an open casket, offering hugs and words of consolation to Carey. Santana and I both opted for simple, black dresses this morning. On account of the day's blistering heat.

The procession is short. Everyone gathers in the church auditorium to listen as the preacher delivers a template speech that has been tailored to Bernadette. Then we file from the pews and filter outside, making a short walk to the cemetery. It's a quite journey, mind faint chatter amongst secular groups. As we near a tent with rows of chairs, situated next to a prepared hole, the crowd grows silent.

There's a relatively large turnout. Many people I haven't once seen enter the Washington's apartment. Rather than visit Bernadette in her dying days, they prefer to break all ties in one fell swoop. In one final visit. I'm sure that not a single soul will return to her grave. A handful of older people join Carey on the setup's front row. Bernadette's siblings, I assume.

The preacher speaks once more. He asks us to bow our heads and join in prayer. Bernadette is then lowered. I glance at Santana, who holds firm in not mourning. Her forehead creases. Lips purse. I grab hold of her hand, give it a tight squeeze, and lean over, whispering the only advice my mother afforded at Dad's funeral. "You know, if you keep making that face, it's going to get stuck like that. It's okay to cry." Because that's what Santana needs most. Someone to grant permission for such extreme feelings. Only once Bernadette's body reaches its final resting place does a single tear roll down my best friend's face.

To end the funeral, a line forms next to the front row. Individuals passing along to offer their sincerest apologies. Much like the preacher's spiel, every condolence is cookie-cutter. But when Santana nears Carey, she pulls her up and wraps her into the world's biggest hug, tears freely flowing between the two. "I'm so sorry," she cries. "I'm so sorry."

At the post-burial meal, Santana doesn't touch her food. Rather, she stares at another table, where Carey is surrounded by Bernadette's siblings. They're discussing something intently. "Greedy bastards," Santana mutters a bit loudly. "Making Carey sit and divvy out her the assets not even two hours after burying her. Her grandmother just died, for Christ's sake." The other four people at our table shoot a questioning glance. Since I don't think you're allowed to say stuff like that in a church, I merely shrug in reply. Santana then disgustedly cocks her head at me, ignoring our table companions. "When I die, don't allow my parents to attend the funeral."

Night has set in by the time our bus reaches Lima Heights. Carey was still battling the elderly when we left. Santana winds me through the same intricate path as before, avoiding the Washington apartment. Sketchy, unlit alleyways are our way. She then walks me upstairs and to the door, hanging around outside.

"I'm going for a walk. Need to clear my head," Santana says. She must recognize my look of concern, for she promises, "Don't worry. I'll be careful."

So I nod. "Oh, and by the way," she calls from the stairwell. "Carey's swinging by later. With some things of Bernadette's that she thought you might like."

I nod and head inside. Tearing out of the black dress as quickly as possible; changing into my most comfortable pair of pajamas. It's been a long, emotionally taxing day. In fact, I prop up on the couch, focusing heavily on keeping awake.

Two hours pass, and I'm starting to worry about Santana, though she told me not to. Leisurely strolls aren't often so long. Then there's a single knock on the door. Carey must be over with whatever of Bernadette's I'm supposed to enjoy. Maybe it's the South Pole elf collection she showcased to me every Sunday. Or maybe it's her collection of Christmas cds.

Imagine my surprise to find neither. Instead, upon opening the door, I find a small, tan boy standing outside. He looks like he could be related to Santana. Before I can ask any questions, another figure emerges from the dark.

And then I'm staring into the bloodshot eyes of my mother.

* * *

**luceroadorada: Nah, no more flipping of the shit. I certainly appreciate it.**

**StephaniieC: Lol, I specifically included Sue just because of your review. And the way you sign it is just fine. I certainly appreciate your reviews.**

**LoneGambit: Late is always better than never, lol. And I always look forward to your reviews. Thanks again.**

**Author's**** Note: Song credit goes to All Time Low for 'Therapy'. And I have no fucking clue how I came about to using it. The damn thing just poked out for whatever reason. With that being said, choosing songs is difficult, so forgive me when they aren't the best possible choices.**

**I understand that the events in this chapter are very sporadic and out of the blue, but there is reasoning behind them. I assure you.**


	13. Chapter 13

**It's always sad to see others leave this world, regardless of their profession, beliefs, or personal lives. Even if he wasn't your favorite character, I urge that we each take a moment to send comforting thoughts to the Monteith family. Because Cory was someone's child, and loved by so many more. May he forever rest in peace.**

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

* * *

"Aren't you going to invite your mother in?" she slurs. My mind is frozen, but a bodily stupor forces me aside, her and the little boy filing in. "This is Eduardo."

The boy seems annoyed, crossing his arms and frowning. "Eddie," he mumbles. "My name is Eddie." My mother flops onto the couch, sparing no time in getting comfortable.

"What are you doing here?" I choke out, finally finding the strength to speak.

She looks taken aback, asking, "Am I not allowed to pay my daughter a visit?" A hacking, violent cough follows. "I will say, it was a bitch finding this place," she says after recovering. "Guy in the office wasn't very helpful."

It's damn near midnight. The office closes at eight. Of course "the guy" wasn't very helpful. Movement sounds just outside the door, and my nerves instantly jump to the edge. Santana. Mom must sense the same, for she rushes in a mad dash to blockade the entrance. "Your mother's sick, honey," she pleads. As if she's fully aware of what an ambush her reappearance will be to Santana, too. "I'm extremely ill."

I'm trying to make sense of what could possibly ail her, faintly recalling my own troubles at the doctor, when Santana's voice blares from outside. "Susan, open the fucking door or I'm busting it down, regardless of who's on the other side." Both parties struggle for a moment before my mother moves, stumbling to the ground from Santana's force. Pairs of eyes from the floor and doorway scream confusion and fluster.

"What in the hell are you doing here?" Santana spits.

"Hi, Santana," Mom and I mutter at the same time.

"Out. Right now," she commands, throwing a hand toward the entrance. "Leave and don't _ever_ come back."

The weight of our situation riddles through me. "Santana," I implore.

But Mom chimes in. "It's okay, sweetheart," she says in a steady voice, beckoning to the child who stands frozen across the room. "Come on, Eduardo. We'll go find somewhere else to sleep. I saw a nice park bench on the way in."

"Hold on," I say. "Santana, can I speak with you? Privately." And with a surge of anxiety, I'm grabbing hold of her arm, tugging it toward the bedroom. When the door slams shut, I insist, "You need to calm down."

Santana eyes widen. "Calm down?" she blurts. "Your mom shows up- with a random kid, nonetheless- and I'm supposed to calm down? Hell no. They need to leave."

"They have nowhere to go," I argue.

"Need I remind you that _you_ also had nowhere to go? You know, when she _left _you?" The words are ice-cold. Her face, on the other hand, is blood red.

"A few nights. And then I'll get rid of them." The origin of my neediness remains foreign.

Santana huffs at the suggestion. Seconds pass, feeling like months. "Two," she finally spits.

"Three," I interject.

She huffs once again and shakes her head. Relaxing, if only slightly. "Three," the Latina breathes. "And not a second more."

Winning the small battle gives me an eerie sensation. A much larger war undoubtedly lies ahead. One I will be far less equipped to fight. Despite the looming peril, I return to the living room alone, intent to explaining the situation. Questioning my mother as to her whereabouts in the previous months. Obtaining long awaited answers. Mom, however, has other plans. For she is fast asleep on the couch, sprawled out awkwardly over the furniture. My eyes shift to Eddie, or Eduardo, who remains quiet in the corner. His head keeps to the ground as I retrieve an armful of blankets from the hall closet. "I'm sorry, but the floor will have to do," I say. "Try to get as comfortable as possible." He furiously begins arranging each, paying no mind to the cluster of boxes Carey left on the door step. As if I might snatch them away in a second.

Santana is hunkered over, taking up most of the bed. And when I climb in, she doesn't budge an inch.

* * *

A day passes, tensions on high. Few words are exchanged between the four of us.

"I'm swinging by the diner this afternoon to see if my job's still there," Santana says the next morning, as we get ready for school. "If so, then I'll probably end up picking up extra shifts. Just thought you should know."

And then she leaves the bathroom, making a bee-line toward the front door. It was the same case yesterday morning. And I have a sneaking suspicion that it will be just so long as my mother lies around, passed out in the living room.

Eddie sits at the kitchen table, poking at a bowl of Lucky Charms. He did the same last night when I made dinner. Which was, consequently, Lucky Charms. "Got any plans for today?" I ask, trying to make light of the situation. He looks at me the same way everyone at school does when I ask dumb questions. Or how everyone in glee did when I wrote and performed a song about cups at Nationals last year.

So take a deep breath, knowing that Mom isn't much fun for anyone who doesn't know how to hang out with her. I offer the only viable solution. "Hey, Eddie. How do you feel about high school?"

* * *

Just before glee practice, Santana catches me in the hallway. She's been ducking me ever since the argument, so it comes as a surprise. "Rumor has it that I've got family in town," she says.

She's started leaving too early for me to run anything past her, so I was forced to make an executive decision. Sometimes, executive decisions involve bringing a strange kid to school and passing him off as Santana's cousin. Ms. Pillsbury looked apprehensive at first, but probably considered just what kind of shenanigans Santana and I are capable of, and let Eddie hang around her office all day. "I didn't want to leave him at the apartment with Mom," is the only rationale I can provide. "Besides, he looks Lebanese."

Santana frowns and crosses her arms before chiding, "I'm Hispanic."

"Regardless," I dismiss. "He's not emotionally prepared to spend so much time around her."

She laughs at this. "An alcoholic before puberty. Destined for a road of joblessness and child abandonment," she sing-songs, twirling around and gesticulating into the air. When I don't respond, Santana dials back and says, "Too soon. Anyway, I've got work tonight, but will be off tomorrow. Figure you and the kid could use a meal that doesn't consist of rainbows and four-leaf clovers."

"God, yes," I laugh, throwing my arms around her neck. "That sounds great." And then I quietly breathe, "Thanks again. For letting them stay."

Santana huffs and softly nudges me away, smiling through clenched lips. "I should be going," she mutters, and then tears off into the other direction. Though I know that her next class is just down the hall from the choir room.

After a question-filled rehearsal, mostly ones about Santana's "cousin", I retrieve Eddie quickly. In hopes of leaving before any glee members can corner us, asking for more details that I'm not prepared to give. "She's kind of a spazz, that guidance lady," he says as we walk to the apartment.

"Ms. Pillsbury just worries," I answer. "Like parents do. She just has to worry about lots of children."

He kicks at a blade of grass , like Santana did before lecturing me about milk. "It's nice," he mumbles. "Having someone worry."

And then a pang of unknown guilt hits my chest. Maybe it's because I haven't really tried getting to know Eddie. Our first words were exchanged this morning. He could have people at home, worried sick about where he's been. Or even worse, no one to care at all. Someone to give you their worry. Their disappointment. Someone to freak out when you don't come home at night. Someone like Santana.

The rest of our journey to Lima Heights, I internally vow to act better toward my best friend. For her. We both know I've put her through the ringer over the past five months. Drinking. Pregnancy scares. Like a child, she's been forced to look after me.

In entering, that declaration is immediately tested. For Mom hops up like a puppy whose owner returns from a long day's work. She rushes forward in quickest stagger and offers me the water bottle I once frequented. Eddie simply returns to his corner position.

"Not tonight," I quickly decline, trying to be as gentle as possible.

My mother tilts her head to the side. When I hold firm, she shrugs and cackles. "Wow," she slurs. "That girl's really changed you."

"Santana. That girl's name is Santana," I spit. "And she hasn't changed me. I'm still the same Brittany. Still your daughter. Just less…confused."

She throws a dismissive hand over her shoulder, slumping back onto the couch. Glaring at the water bottle, Mom throws her head back and downs the entire thing. She nestles deeper into the furniture, resting both hands atop her stomach. And with dozing eyes, she mutters, sarcasm dripping from each word, "Whatever you say."

* * *

Santana is standing in front of the stove top, tending to multiple skillets and pans. Aromas of meat and spices fill the air. Eddie waits at the table, flipping through the spare deck of cards we keep next to the salt and pepper. Mom is nowhere to be found.

"All right, tan man," Santana begins, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Come and give this a taste." She then dips into one of the heavier/thicker pans, producing a spoonful of red substance. "Pollo al Chilindron," she says.

He reluctantly tries a mouthful, grimacing and shaking his head right after. Santana looks displeased, to say the least. I rush in, trying the same amount and giving an affirmative smile. It really does taste good. Ten times better than anything I've ever made. So when Eddie returns to the dinner table, Santana grumbles to herself, "Fucking piece of shit kid."

Imagine the surprise when he shuffles through the cabinets and retrieves a bowl, pouring out Lucky Charms. "I don't eat anything that I can't pronounce," he answers to my questioning glance.

Santana shouts from the kitchen. "It's Pollo al Chilindron, you uncultured piece of-"

"Chicken," I interrupt. "It's a chicken dish."

His eyes brighten at the mention, shoveling cereal in his mouth by the heaping spoonful. As it's finished, he clears the table and lays out dishes. I venture back into the kitchen, placing a quick kiss to Santana's cheek. "See," I say. "He's not so bad."

She groans in answer, clicking the burner eye off. When we're finally gathered around the table, Santana placing the large pan in its center, she asks, "I know looks are deceiving and all, but do you know _any_ Spanish?"

It seems that Eddie enjoys from transitioning from lighthearted around me to confrontational with Santana, for whatever reason. For he smirks, flashing a sly grin. "Puta," he announces, and it takes everything I have to muscle the Latina's raised spatula down. Needless to say, she doesn't ask any more questions throughout the meal.

Vividly recalling every tense dinner at the Lopez's and shuttering at the memory, I try keeping the mood light. "What exactly does Pollo al Chilindron translate to?" I ask Santana.

"Chicken in a heavy pot," she grunts, eyes returning to the plate.

"And Eddie. How did you meet my mother?" I ask, shifting to the other end.

"Well, I was outside of a bus station in Knoxville," he says with a full mouth. "Looking for my dinner, when she walked by and threw up on it."

Santana coughs, looking to me. With that, I'm forced to pry further. "What do you mean she threw up on your dinner? Did she just walk up and blow chunks all over you?" At this point, nothing is surprising.

Eddie smiles. "In her defense, she hit the trashcan spot on. I should've moved."

The realization takes a moment to set in, but when it does, I no longer have an appetite. No wonder he didn't complain about cereal for every meal. Santana must understand, as well, for she stands up, grabs his plate, and dumps another helping onto it.

I eventually say, "Okay. So you both took a bus to Lima?" He begins attacking the new plate, shaking his head. "Bryant? I think." He then mulls it over. "Yeah. Bryant, Ohio."

"That's about an hour from here," I announce. "How did you guys get here from there?"

"The car," he answers.

Santana looks disgruntled. "The _car_?"

Only now does Eddie cut his eyes up and across the table. In a flash, he mutters in both a sarcastic and intentionally dumbed down tone, "It's actually a spaceship, but Susan made me promise not to tell."

If I thought that Santana was on the verge of hitting him earlier, I was terribly wrong. Because now it appears as if the table is Eddie's only saving grace. Even so, she looks as if she'll clear it in a single stretch. I'm once again forced to keep the conversation going, knowing that any lapse in activity could possibly result in a mutilated child and Santana's return to jail. "Where did the car come from?" I ask. "My mom isn't exactly swimming in money."

"We found it at the bus stop," he shrugs. "Someone left it running. Susan said they wouldn't be coming back, and that I should probably turn it off for them." At this point, my view on life's ability to surprise me is completely altered. "When I got inside to take the keys out," Eddie continues. "Susan jumped in and told me to go."

Santana coughs again, this time louder. She then spits, "And you're how old, kid?"

"Old enough," he smirks, eliciting an irritated groan from the Latina. When I shoot him my best parent look, one that my dad shot me so many times before, his smug grin disappears. "Eleven."

I then ask, "And you drove the entire way?"

Eddie nods one final time, as if it's nothing. A moot point. He picks up his plate, extends it, and says, "More please."

* * *

School the next day is thrown off course when Ms. Pillsbury barrels into History class, summoning me. Outside, it appears that Santana has been called to action, too. "The little boy, he's disappeared," Ms. Pillsbury rambles. She begins pacing back and forth in the hallway. "I went to answer a call at my desk, and when I came back, he was gone. Vanished in thin air."

Santana has always possessed distaste for Ms. Pillsbury, so she ignores the counselor and grabs my arm. We hurry down the hallway, peeking in every nook and cranny. It's a worrisome half-hour hunt. On my part, at least. Santana looks eerily content each time the search comes up empty. We're about to cut our losses when inside shows no sign of Eddie. I think of the old Skank spot, and surely enough, two shadows appear just underneath the football bleachers. Puck stands with Eddie, placing something into the child's hand.

Santana storms up to the pair, ripping a small baggie from Eddie's hands. She looks up to Puck and sneers, "He's eleven. And you have a daughter."

"A daughter that needs diapers," Puck complains. "How else am I supposed to support the thing?" He extends both hands, shrugging.

In this instance, Santana snatches the various crumpled dollar bills away from his hand. She snaps, "Get a job," before grabbing hold of Eddie's ear and marching him back to my side. Her eyes cut into the eleven year-old. "I don't know where the money came from, but if any is missing from Britt's or my wallets, I will personally see to it that you can't scratch your own ass, let alone steal. Got it?"

I tense up, praying to whomever above that Eddie doesn't make a sarcastic comment. For both of our sakes. He must realize this, for he merely nods in agreement.

When Santana is finally out of ear shot, Eddie whispers, "She's terrifying."

"Absolutely," I confirm, and then we're headed back inside. Bound to address the debacle later.

Eddie doesn't run away from Ms. Pillsbury's office for the rest of the day. A small victory on our parts. Or Santana's part. In leaving glee practice, Quinn forces Puck to apologize. She catches me before leaving. "I'm sorry, Brittany. He can be a real ass sometimes."

"And Santana's supposed to be the bad guy," I scoff just before leaving.

* * *

At the apartment, Eddie and I are once again left to our own devices. So we feast on the leftovers of last night as I teach him the inner workings of Gin Rummy. "Just don't play against Santana," I say after the basics are covered. "She's really good."

"I'd hate to accidentally win and have her hate me even more," Eddie laughs.

"She doesn't hate you," I say, dealing a fresh hand. "She just takes some warming up to. Even though calling her a bitch and running off to buy pot don't necessarily help."

"Figured she could use it to loosen up," he shrugs, attention returning back to the cards. I don't try fathoming how an eleven would know all of this stuff. When I was his age, dance was the only concern. School. Being a kid.

We play a handful of games, two of which I lose. Unintentionally, too. I'll give it to him. He's smart. Even though that fact was made clear earlier underneath the bleachers. Not with Puck. But in knowing what- or what not- to say around Santana. By the time I lose my third game, yawns and tired stresses become the main focus. So I walk Eddie to his pallet on the living room floor, unsure as to my next move. "Where are your parents?" I ask, deciding to plop onto the couch before Mom returns and commandeers it.

His face falls, much similar to the way Santana's does when we discuss ours. Their expressions both harden and soften simultaneously. I'm about to accept his silence as the answer, when Eddie climbs underneath the covers. "I don't know," he eventually responds.

Understanding the pain of accepting those words as fact, I try to find common ground by asking, "They left you, too, huh?"

"They would've had to be around in the first place for it to be considered leaving," he breathes.

I try processing the words to no avail. The feeling. This must mean that he's been alone for quite some time. At least I've always had Santana. Glee. Cheerios. And Mom. For a little while, that is. Not wanting to put him through too much at once, I kneel down and reach for the blanket, pulling it to where the sheet covers his head entirely. "Santana once told me that nothing can touch you underneath here," I assure. "You're safe. Protected."

The cover doesn't budge as I clean what remains of our dinner. And when I depart for the bedroom. And when Santana quietly creeps in at two in the morning, evidently. "The kid's ten kinds of wrapped up in that blanket," she mutters, the bed dipping lower. Her warm body lessening the bite of our ceiling fan.

We both lay for a few moments, staring as the fan makes revolution after revolution. I think to the past couple of days. Each time a new bit of Eddie was brought to the surface. Each time my gratitude toward Santana was renewed. My promise to let her know just how much it's meant having her around. Even with the turmoil over Bernadette- something she still falls victim to, occasionally, when we bypass the Washington's apartment- Santana's always been here. Right by my side.

So I take a deep breath, inhaling through my nose and exhaling through my mouth. Trying to settle the nerves that appear out of nowhere. Talking to her shouldn't be so difficult, but it seems that every conversation possesses a steepened consequence, should something go awry. I eventually mumble, "You did great today. With Eddie and Puck."

I feel every movement as she readjusts next to me. "No issue," she sighs. "Getting into trouble on the second day? Maybe the bastard is related to me. And Puck's a dumbass, anyway."

"No. I mean yo-" but there's a racket outside the door. It's distant. Coming from the living room. Santana pops to attention, stealthily swinging her feet over the bedside. She turns to me, saying, "Hold that thought," and moves the covers over my head. "I'll be right back."

I would be afraid, but the past two nights have been the same scene. Mom staggers into the apartment in the early morning, and Santana makes sure we aren't being robbed. Evidently, Lima Heights isn't where the noble citizens of Ohio reside. Then again, _that_ red flag probably should've gone up when I first moved in and noticed the baseball bat that would forever remain propped up nearest the bedroom door.

And so I wait, just as the other nights. The situations are usually resolved in minutes, and Santana returns to bed and lets me curl into her. Ten minutes pass, however. Fifteen. Then raised voices sound from down the hall. I tightly squeeze into a ball, clutching onto the blanket overhead. Hoping, hoping, and hoping again that Santana was right in assessing its powers of protection.

That is, until my mother's voice booms. "You can't do a thing to me," she laughs. "Or you'll go right back to jail."

"If I could, Susan. Oh, boy. If I could," Santana says.

"Go ahead," Mom calls out.

But Santana barges back into the room, diving into bed face-first. She lashes out, brute force sending the nightstand toppling over. Heavy breathing moves the bed up and down. Up and down. I'm too petrified to move or say anything, so I keep still. Maybe Santana will think I've fallen asleep.

"After tomorrow, I want them gone," she snarls.

Okay. So I was wrong. "But-" I begin to protest.

"After tomorrow, Brittany," she snaps a final time before rolling onto her side.

* * *

I'm woken to the sound of Santana rummaging through the dresser, the sting of last night still fresh. She throws on a t-shirt and hoodie, muttering, "Last day, Brittany." The door slams before I can muster an objection.

All throughout school, I'm plotting ways of keeping my mother and Eddie around. Or finding them somewhere close to live, at least. Maybe in Lima Heights. Because even though I'd never admit it to Santana, having both around has been nice. Like we're some sort of random, dysfunctional family. Not without problems. But a family, nonetheless.

So far, no remotely decent ideas have come forth. Nothing that Santana would agree to, anyway. By the time I pick up Eddie, he wears the same worry that I feel. "How long do we have?" he asks, looking glum against the equally blue sky.

"What do you mean?"

"Your girlfriend is mad. Your mom is mad," he analyzes. "Two mad people can't live under the same roof. So how long do we have before she kicks us out?"

I seem to have forgotten that blanket shields aren't soundproof. And the hesitance he exudes only reaffirms my lapse in memory. The same memory bank that runs out of Santana's tricks for dealing with these types of remarks. I only imitated her with the blanket mess. I've only ever done what I once saw Santana do. But his question leaves me without answer.

"Don't worry about that, bud," is all I can choke out.

* * *

"One more week."

Santana pauses in tidying the bedroom, something she only does when stress mounts. "Brittany," she groans. "They've been here long enough. It's time that they leave."

"Why are you acting so irrational?" I argue. "There's a little boy in there who is terrified of being kicked out of yet another home. Are you going to be the one who does it?"

She finishes folding a t-shirt and slams the drawer shut. Pointing a finger at me, Santana says, "Don't you put that on me." She opens the drawer back open, unfolds a shirt, and refolds it. "Need I remind you that the woman you're so adamant on helping left you without a single warning?"

"Kind of like you did?" I ask.

Santana spits, "But I came back."

"And so did she," I say. If this is the grudge match that she wants, then so be it.

"Tell me with a straight face that our night at the community center meant nothing," she challenges. None of it makes sense. Not to me, at least.

"It meant the world, Santana," I say. "But what happened then has nothing to do with right now."

Santana slams the drawer shut a final time. "It has everything to do with right now!" she yells. "_She left. _Don't you get that? I was here for you. And now she waltzes back into your life, with a _stolen _kid that she let operate a _stolen_ vehicle, and I'm supposed to be okay with it?" I never noticed Santana's temper issue until I've tested her judgments. Quite frankly, Eddie was right to be terrified. After several drawn-out seconds, she looks back to me with pleading eyes. "Weren't these past few months supposed to be about us?"

Only now do her words sink in. They dance around in the air, begging the inward question: Is Santana fighting back for my sake or for hers? "Being awfully selfish, aren't we?" I retort. "I'm trying to be fair. Give everyone a second chance. And just because you threw your family away, doesn't make it a crime when I'm not ready to."

The answer comes in the way Santana's features twist. She pulls her lip in, head following suit. So clearly betrayed by my comment. "Wow. Who ever thought that being fair meant you could be so stuck?" And then she's gone. Barreling down the hallway and outside, a slam shaking the entire apartment.

I immediately crawl into bed, tugging the covers overhead. I remain there until tonight, waiting for her to creep inside. Waiting for her to climb in next to me. To say that we're both wrong, and all of this can be fixed. I wait until my eyes fall heavy. And then I wait until I can't anymore.

* * *

In the morning, I wake to an empty bed, mind three tri-folded pages on the pillow next to mine. The one where Santana's head should be. At first inspection, small, dried splotches of water litter each page. And at a further glance, Santana's handwriting courses across each page, the opening lines like a knife to my chest.

_If you're reading this, I am long gone. And hopefully, by its end, you'll be grateful that I am._

* * *

**luceroadorada: Oh yeah, dude. She's back. Haha. I certainly appreciate it.**

**StephaniieC: I thank you, as always.**

**Kidwhit: That was what I was shooting for with this piece. I didn't want bad shit to happen for bad shit's sake, but rather for the sake of growth. Much like you, I cannot stand stories where the focal point strays too far into the lives of minor characters. **

**Thank you for such an in-depth look, and I certainly value it. And as always, thanks for taking the time to make it known.**

**Author's**** Note:**** As always, I appreciate the insight from everyone. God bless.**


	14. Chapter 14

_ My dearest Brittany, _

_ If you're reading this, I am long gone. And hopefully, by its end, you'll be grateful that I am. This letter is probably long overdue. But I'll do my best to encompass and express everything that I've been too cowardly to say aloud over the past five months. The answers to every question you've asked. Answers I couldn't bear to witness you discover. A list of explanations, if you will. As if words will ever be enough._

_Compiled below are only a fraction of my sorrows. The fears that plague me every time that I see you. Every failure I've committed in regard to you. And hopefully, by the time I've finished admitting each, I won't be so afraid anymore._

_ Our time together- the course of our lives- is something I reflect on frequently. Regretting the choices I've made. Regretting the ones I haven't. The years we've spent together have been far too short. Anything less than a lifetime by your side will be too short, I fear. But my fears have kept us at arm's length of each other. With every question you asked, or every wrongdoing another inflicted upon you. My greatest fear was always the truth, and how it would shatter the perfect world you've long inhabited._

_ I always thought that I was doing things the right way. Gently. As painlessly as possible. Unfortunately, Ms. Pillsbury doesn't have a pamphlet on these things._

_ You were wrong in trying to fix me, Brittany. For the damage I've accrued is irreversible. A jagged stone weathered over time. But you know what? I was wrong, too, Brittany. God, was I wrong. You can't put people back together. But you can't keep them from breaking, either. Much like I tried doing with you. I merely dimmed the lights. Pulled the blanket over your head when evil threatened to storm in. And maybe that's what I regret most._

_ I'm sorry for that night at Karofsky's. You were in so much pain over that damn cat. Maybe more, but he was the only prevalent worry. It wasn't five miles down the road that a police officer stopped us. You were sick and I was speeding. When you puked and he saw the massive bag of pills, an immense anger welled inside of me. For not recognizing the signs earlier. For not realizing just how much pain you were truly in._

_ The officer must have noted my shock, because he was constantly giving me ways out throughout the proceedings. "Just say that they're your friend's," he repeated. Even as I held you in the back seat, sobs breaking free by the second. "Tell me that your friend bought them, and you're free to go." The words play in my head from time to time._

_ Not as much as what you said when I tucked you into bed, though. I tried apologizing then. For allowing you to struggle alone. For being a shitty friend. With each word that I stumbled over, your eyes grew clearer, and they stared right through me. Like I wasn't there. Like I no longer existed. And then you said three words. Three words that stuck with me for fourteen months. You muttered, "I hate you."_

_ It hurt like hell, hearing you sound so vile. For it meant that the innocent unicorn I loved so much was no longer there. I spent weeks running over those words. Trying to figure out what warranted your hatred. Eventually, though, the uncertainty became a sort of solace. I avoided the issue, knowing that should I ever pinpoint your reasoning, some sadistic part of my heart would try to remedy it. In enough time, I became grateful in what I did know. I knew that some part of you could let me go. Whether you were in touch with that part or not- it was there. A heart filled with bitterness and malice has no room for love. And that's what I needed most. I needed you to stop loving me._

_ But the letters- they came like clockwork. And I refused to read them. I couldn't. Because the women I lived alongside were crushed; torn down and broken by slivers of hope that news from the outside provided. If I was going to survive with my sanity intact, my only hope was the notion that ignoring your letters and being so out of sight would ultimately remove me from both your mind and heart. _

_ Having people forget you is tough. But having them remember is the most heart-breaking of all._

_ My parents sent mail, too. Much like yours, the envelope came every week. A long document that stipulated everything the officer tried to convince me of. A signature would have recanted my admittance. Said it was all your doing. That you weren't of sound mind. Unaware of your surroundings, actions, and the consequences of each. I couldn't sign them. Because you've always been so smart. Sometimes too smart for your own good. I believed it then, and I believe it now. You're a genius, Brittany._

_ With every refusal, my parents pulled further away. I wish there was a more elaborate way of putting it. I cared for you so deeply. They didn't. _

_ I'm not only sorry for my parents, but for yours, as well. Your mother- she abandoned you, forced you into the clutches of addiction, and neglected your needs. Another of my biggest fears is that I've become no better than she._

_ Don't let her take your milk, B. Not now. Not ever._

_ I'm sorry for being so selfish with you. Sorry for not being selfish enough. I'm sorry for the lies. For allowing dishonesty to become the only ground we walk on. Blindly following the path. Withholding truths, so that each day, we might tread a little farther._

_ "How far we all come. How far we all come away from ourselves. So far, so much between, you can never go home again." I picked that up in the countless books they made us read in jail. It never made sense until I found you, drunk and stumbling around the complex. I knew that you had changed._

"You can't make homes out of people," I whisper.

_ And before you say that homes can't be made out of people, I'm here to say that you're wrong. Home is where you're safe. Loved. Where it's okay to hurt and to be hurt. It extends far beyond the confines of a city, state, or zip code. Home is so much more than a location on some map. It's the people you surround yourself with. People like you. You were my home, Brittany. And it terrifies me to know that you always will be._

_ Do you remember Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz? Of course you do. It's your favorite movie behind The Lion King. God, I hated that movie. But I memorized every line, just because you were so adamant about reenacting rather than watching. There really is no place like home. And I wish it were as easy as clicking gaudy, red heels together, but it's not. Nothing about us is easy. Never has been._

_ I'm sorry for not giving you the right things. Instead, I gave you every meaningless item I could find. Shelter. Money. Food. My worry, care, and time. Even my body. But I spent so much time shoving your despair and misery into the depths of my own heart, that there was nothing left to give. Nothing that hadn't been tainted by grief. Nothing that you deserved._

_ And you deserve far more than what I've got. You deserve to be surrounded by people who can give you everything that I couldn't. Or just one person, or can give you the happy parts, too. One person who isn't afraid to show you just how frail and damaged theirs is. _

_ If you ever feel as though you need me around, revert back to this letter as a reminder of why you don't. Think of those three words. Know that I hated myself, too. Still do, in fact. I hate being afraid. I hate knowing that, should it ever be necessary, I would go back to that night at Karofsky's and do it all over again. I hate that if I convinced you the heat would be a nice change of weather, you would probably follow. But most of all, and just as then, I hate myself for loving you so damn much._

_ There are things that I can protect you from. Moments when I can pull the blanket over your eyes. But there is one painful truth that it's taken me far too long to realize. One that I only discovered tonight. The one thing that I've come to fear most._

_ I can't protect you from yourself._

_With all of my love,_

_Santana_

* * *

A half-empty closet. An inexplicable pang of loneliness in my chest. This letter. These are the signs of Santana's disappearance from the apartment.

I wander from bed, clutching the pages in my right hand. Tears drop off of my chin like icicles from the eaves of houses, just as spring creeps in. I plop on the couch next to Mom, the weight of the earth crashing down in one fell swoop. "How about that drink?" she asks, sounding smug. I snatch the bottle from her hand, thinking all the while, "_This is my home, now."_

A strange pang of nostalgia hits me. When I was little- about six or so- I had a favorite blanket. A blanket that was my best friend until Santana came into my life. A blanket that I ate, bathed, and slept with. A blanket that I also had a knack for losing. And each time it disappeared, I would run to my dad, tears streaming down my face. He _always_ found it. As if fathers have magical, blanket-summoning powers.

Before giving it back, though, he would sit me down and say, "You can only lose something so many times before it's gone for good. Try to be more careful with the important things."

I'm starting to believe that his advice applies to people, too.

* * *

**StephaniieC: Haha, and thank you for reviewing, as usual.**

**gilliang3: Those two words literally made me lose my shit with laughter. In the best way possible. I looked and saw, "Well, crap." and it was just perfect. I have no idea why, either.**

**LoneGambit: I certainly appreciate that. Lol. I vow with everything that I have, things will turn out just peachy. In a literary sense. Thanks for taking the time to read and review.**

** xoxo (Guest): I can say nothing more than thank you for pinpointing everything I've been trying to get across. It's refreshing to know that people catch on. I appreciate your taking the time to read and review.**

**ichigo111981: Dude, you're telling me.**

**luceroadorada: Haha, I like the kid, too. Thanks for reading.**

**Author's Note: ****It's easy to see a letter as a cop-out (because I do, too, in many stories.) But I've had this hanging around for a bit, and it seems like enough to tie up some strings while buying myself a bit more time with the next chapter.**

**P.S. Sorry for the shit storm that has become their lives. Just...sorry.**


	15. Chapter 15

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters. All further works will be accredited in the Author's Note. _**

* * *

Maybe I really am a magician. The world's worst, of course. Tackling the greatest of vanishing acts. Constantly making people disappear without so much as a clue as to how they can be brought back. The letter that remains both crumpled in my hand and tucked away underneath my pillow serves as a continual reminder.

I spent the entire day on that couch. And every other day this week. Wake up each morning with a blistering headache, vomit for ten minutes straight, and wander off to a meaningless day of public education. This routine has become the only consistent thing in my life. Knowing that, with every morning that my eyes pop open, Mom will be sprawled out next to me on the couch. She will grunt twice as I climb up and stumble toward the bathroom. And when I return in the afternoons, she will more than likely be in the same position.

This Sunday, however, I don't wake until five o'clock p.m. And when I finally wrestle away from the tattered piece of furniture, full drunkenness affords no hangover. Eddie watches from the kitchen table, pretending to fiddle with a deck of cards. "I need you to take me somewhere," I slur. His look isn't so much of confusion as it is apprehensive. Lulls in conversation lead to "no"s. So I finish with a quick, "Are you going to give me a ride or not? Because I'll drive if you don't." Having used this line on Santana when we younger, at home alone, and craving ice cream- I know that it works like a charm. Eddie does too, for he grabs the keys from the countertop.

As we near the diner, I search for Santana through the front window. There is no visible sign. Inside, there are fewer signs, mind the wide-eyed, terrified glance J.B.I shoots from behind the register. He rushes to the counter as I approach. "You shouldn't be here," he mutters through clenched teeth. His two pairs of eyes cut behind.

"Just looking for Santana," I mumble, scanning the area for an adult of any sort. The one I presume to be her boss. There's a short man in a greasy white shirt, but he doesn't look like someone who owns a diner. Quite frankly, he doesn't look like someone who owns another clean shirt. "When will she be back?" I ask, reverting back to J.B.I.

"Brittany. You need to leave," he scolds.

At this point, my left leg feels like it's about to give out. So I tumble into one of the bar stools, folding my hands. "I can wait," I say. "She's got to be in sometime within the next week. So I'll wait."

J.B.I. seems defeated as he sighs and wanders through a swinging door, returning with the short, greasy man. "You," he snaps, pointing directly at me. "Out of the diner. Now."

"Waiting on a friend," I dismiss with a flick of my wrist, nearly falling from the stool.

This displeases Short Greasy Guy, for he snaps at two other guys; both athletic types. Each places a hand underneath my arm and on the lower part of my back, lifting in tandem. Walking in tandem. Gently placing me on the sidewalk outside in tandem. Eddie tenses from behind the steering wheel, slumping into his seat. "She has to talk to me, eventually," I call out, banging on the now-locked glass door. "Eventually."

In the car, before Eddie can muster a sly remark, I instruct, "It's rush hour. Try not to get pulled over."

After an uphill battle known as the apartment stairs, Mom intervenes at the door. "Oh, honey. What has she done to you?" she asks, catching me just as sobs of defeat begin breaking free. We move to the couch. All the while, I rack hysterically in my mother's arms.

"Why is everyone always leaving?" I sob. The sniffles take over. A combination between hiccupping and trying to eke out your last strangled cries. Wiping my nose and looking to Mom, I ask, "Why'd you go?"

She looks as unsettled as I've ever seen her. Even more than when the landlord would come knocking at our old house. Readjusting and brushing a piece of hair behind my ear, Mom says, "Does it matter? I'm here now." It's the sincerest I've heard her sound in a long time, too.

But Mom's right. She _is_ here. Eddie _is_ here. Maybe now is the time that we all turn over new leaves. Forget the past and carry on with our lives. _This is home, now. This is home_, I think continuously. And maybe if I repeat the thought enough, I'll actually start believing it.

* * *

The next morning is brought on by smells of Santana's coffee and the sounds of chattering. I snap to, half-heartedly expecting to see my best friend. This scene is quite the opposite. Two uniformed police officers are gathered around the counter as my mother pours coffee into two mugs; rambling on about God knows what.

"Let me make sure I've got everything down correctly," one of the officers says, flipping through a notepad. "She threatened you. Right over there?" A hand gestures to the door.

"Exactly," Mom says. "She said, 'If I could, Susan. Oh, boy. If I could.' It was terrifying."

I peek from underneath the covers just as the other officer, a short woman with equally short hair, asks, "And you're prepared for what lies ahead if you press charges? It's a stressful process, Mrs. Pierce. On everyone."

Mom gasps in fake surprise. The same way she would every time Dad bought presents for a birthday or holiday that she didn't like. "That girl kidnapped my daughter. Held her in this very apartment against her will. Do you see that bat?" she carries on, pointing nearest the front door. "Nothing is too stressful. Not when it comes to doing what's right."

The allegation brings me upright. And as soon as I'm free of the blanket facial, Mom rushes to the couch, placing a sneaky finger to my lips. "You see? Nightmares. She wakes up just like this at least fifteen times throughout the night." Mom gives me a firm hug before making eye contact. "Tell them, honey. Tell them how she took you from me." She's as sober as ever. Eyes the clearest and most pleading they've ever been.

Coach Sylvester's rationale booms in my thoughts. About sacrificing to get what and where you want. I'm so caught up in the officers' pointed stares, however, that it's hard distinguishing what belongs to each category. _Where _I want to be is out of this room. Away from the limelight. _What_ is a different story. But since I've asked Santa every year since I was ten to have a mother again, I fold and give an unmistakable nod of my head.

* * *

"You called the cops?" I spit just as the door closes and a handful of safe-seconds pass.

"She took you from me, honey. I'm not losing you again," she answers.

"This is _her_ apartment, though. We can't just stay here."

"Not like she's got much use for it now," Mom breathes. "Regardless, I need to know something. I need you to tell me that you're on my side. Because this is our chance to start over. Be a family again. You want that, right?"

The words ring in my ears. _A family._ Who doesn't want one? A place to feel loved, and cherished, and wanted. People who stick by your side, no matter what. "Of course."

"Good. Now run along to school." She retreats to the refrigerator, fishing for a water bottle.

I pull Eddie from the apartment and to McKinley. He tags along everywhere I go these days. School. Work. Even when Mom sends me to the liquor store, he keeps me company. So I make the decision to introduce him at glee. Just so everyone has a chance to meet Santana's-cousin-but-not-really.

"So this is the infamous Eddie," Mr. Schuester says when we enter. "Eddie what? Lopez?"

Eddie shakes his head. "Just Eddie."

"Well, 'Just Eddie'. Welcome to the team."

Rachel chimes in from the front row, speaking to no one in particular. "Are you sure they're related? He doesn't even look like Santana."

Eddie cuts his eyes to her, the reaction harsher than any words ever need be. It's enough to stifle the girl, for she cowers down and mutters, "Maybe they _are_ related."

We run through the Nationals routine multiple times before calling it a day. Truthfully, dancing takes my mind off of things, and I'm always sad in leaving practice. But as Quinn took the lead on "Edge of Glory" each time, I couldn't manage the queasy feeling it produced. That was supposed to be Santana's song. And it was taken away before she could even enjoy it.

Eddie and I tear off toward the community center immediately after. He's quite the janitor, Eddie. Pays close attention to detail. Doesn't complain. Works hard. And he's actually kind of fun to be around. With this morning's events and glee practice, though, I'm not in much of a mood for fun. Especially after we finish the work and he proposes a game of hide-n-seek. "I'm not really in the mood for games," I say. But he's persistent. And I cave.

We're three games in when I realize that playing a hiding game with a petite, formerly homeless boy isn't the best idea. Not if you enjoy winning. Every time I wander from the dance studio and scour the building, he's always waiting by the base when I return. Wearing a smug grin; basking in glory. I hunker to the floor, hoping he'll take it as surrender. He sits down, too. Tired breathing fills the void until he asks, "What was with the fuzz being around the apartment this morning?"

The fuzz? Sometimes I forget that Eddie is as young as he is, and is capable of resorting to childlike references. Even though he's probably been through and seen enough to last three lifetimes. And I was so caught up in eavesdropping that I haven't thought about him doing the same. "Mom called them," I admit. "On Santana."

"Well, that was shitty of her," he says, tapping the hardwood floor. "She's kind of a douchebag, Susan."

Defensiveness and guilt from this morning win out before I consider the words. _Did he see me nod? _Did he see my nonverbal confession against Santana? "She's my _mother_, Eddie. She's all I've got," I scold. "And you can't say 'shitty'. Or 'douchebag'. You're only eleven." I then begin searching for something else to talk about. Anything. Thinking to glee, I ask, "What's your real last name, anyways?"

"No clue," he dismisses. "And I have a hard time believing that Santana would've let her mother do the same to you. She wouldn't have thrown you under the bus." _Oh, yeah_. He saw.

"With my track record, she would've been driving the bus," I say.

Eddie yawns and lays back, hands folded behind his head. Legs extended and crossed. "I most definitely would," he laughs. "But Santana, she wouldn't. That girl kind of loves you."

"Not anymore," I say. "Besides, you wouldn't understand the nature of our relationship, even if you did. You're only eleven."

This elicits a laugh from the kid. "Firstly, that made no sense. Secondly, I do know that just because she doesn't show her feelings the same way you do is no need to worry that they aren't there. Besides," he mimics my tone, "when you spend enough time alone, you learn a lot about other people. Just from watching."

"And you think she still cares?" I ask. Eddie nods. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

His face brightens at my asking. "Go find her, of course. Let her know what's going down. Think of it as hide-n-seek, only on a broader scale."

"It's not that simple, Eddie. She's expressed on many occasions that she doesn't _want_ to be found." I snap, slightly irritated by his lackadaisical approach. The kind of emotional naivety afforded by youth.

"Isn't that kind of the point?" Eddie asks, pulling upright, twirling, and jumping to his feet. "You guys hurt each other. You constantly run away from the other and fight more than any married couple I've seen. But you also love each other, whether you'll admit it or not. And you don't give up on the people you love. Not like this, at least."

He twirls a final time, hands extending outward, propelling him around. Landing, he says, "But what do I know? I'm only eleven."

* * *

The next few mornings, there are no aromas of brewing coffee. No sounds of muffled chatter. Instead, a cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. The apartment walls appear to be closing in. Every knock sends me into a panic. No police cars come back to the apartment, however, so I allow brief moments of relaxation. Yet here I lay, defenseless and fidgety on the couch.

Eddie's been sleeping in Santana's room. I've been too fearful of stepping foot in there to change clothes, let alone spend an entire night. Still, though, I peek inside to check on Eddie, who snores loudly. _Just like she did_, I think. With the affirmation, I slip on a jacket and tear off into the chilly weekend morning.

It's an oddly reminiscent feeling, visiting my father's grave alone. There is no pressure to say the right thing. No stakes surrounding my confessions. Just me and him. Like it used to be.

The sun breaks through overhead, glaring against his headstone. The cemetery is empty except for me. I practiced my speech the entire walk over, but when I go to speak, nothing comes free. Every prepared question, explanation, or tidbit of small talk is trapped in the back of my throat. Expanding with each second that it remains. And when it feels as though my throat is about to explode, tears begin streaming down my face.

"Hey, Dad," I eventually choke out, failing at sounding composed. "I'm still working on this whole 'talking to people when they aren't around' thing, so forgive me for not knowing exactly what to say. Santana was always better at this."

A gentle breeze blows by, sending chills down my spine. Freezing the wet lines on my face. It's chilly out, even for early spring. I scan the area once more, finding the courage to speak a bit louder with the absence of other people. "I know that I don't come to visit as often as I should, and I'm sorry for that. But you don't much anymore, either. I used to see you everywhere, Dad. In everything I did. And it scares me because I don't anymore."

"Dad, I need you now more than ever. Because things are really hectic and I have no idea what to do," I say. "Mom's gone off the deep end. Over my best friend, who also refuses to speak with or see me. And I've got an eleven-year-old who's going to start asking questions. Ones that I'm not smart or experienced enough to answer." The breeze disappears, leaves ceasing to move. "So if you could just come back one more time, I promise that I'll never ask for another favor. Because this is super important, and I could really use your help."

The wind returns as I finish, rippling through the trees. If Santana and I were out here, stopping by for our yearly visit, it would be a beautiful sight. But she's not here. Neither is Dad. And with this realization, anger fills my chest. So much so that I'm extending both hands, looking to the sky and then the trees. "That's all you've got?" I shout. "I ask for your help, and _this_ is what you give me?"

Still no answer. Instead, a voice calls from behind me. "No sense in yelling at them," the voice says. "They're not going to yell back. Trust me, I've tried." I turn and hustle forward, wrapping Carey in a tight hug. After the moment passes, she grimaces and says, "Dude, you reek."

"It's been a rough couple of days," I mutter.

We stand in silence before she grabs my wrist, leading me down the cemetery path until we stop in front of another headstone. _Georgia Bernadette Washington_. My throat catches at the sight of her name, but Carey digs into her pocket, producing a crumpled piece of paper. "I read this to her every day," she says, handing the sheet to me. "It's your turn."

I hesitantly look to the poem and back at Carey. She gives an encouraging nod, so I begin, "I never said goodbye to you; it made no sense to me. I only say goodbye, to those I'll never see. One day I'll hold your hand again; in my heart I do believe, that death is not the end of life; it's just a short reprieve." The poem breaks, as does my voice. A faint grumble of thunder plays overhead. "I never said goodbye to you, instead I said "I love you." As you departed on your journey to a place where life is new. I held your hand and kissed you. Your leaving made me cry. But in the end, I know I'll see you again…so I never said goodbye."

"Any better?" Carey asks.

I shake my head and fold the paper as a fresh batch of hot, salty water rolls from my eyes. Carey puts an arm around me as I say, "I'm sorry about your grandmother."

"Everybody's sorry when it's time to say goodbye," she huffs, clearly aggravated by the gesture. "Nobody really gives a damn in the meantime."

"I did," I mumble. "Santana did."

"You two sure have a funny way of showing it," Carey says. Then the skies open, pelts of rain falling. We rush to a bench that sits under the cover of a massive oak tree.

When we're rested, and a fresh bout of rain pours down, I ask, "Is Santana staying with you?"

"Afraid not," Carey replies, shaking her head. "What happened this time?"

And so I explain everything in detail. Our argument. My hurtful words. Santana's letter. Mom calling the cops. "Did she say goodbye?" Carey asks when I finish. "In the letter, did she say, "Goodbye, Brittany'?" I recall the letter and shake my head. No, I guess she didn't. "Then I believe there's hope for you yet."

"I'm not sure what I believe anymore," I confess, tugging at a damp piece of grass. "It'd be really fucking swell if bad stuff would quit happening for, like, two days," I finish in one breath.

Carey laughs at this. "Maybe we don't need the bad stuff to quit happening as much as we need it to make sense."

"Around when does it start making sense?" I ask.

She stands, patting both thighs and sighing loudly. "When I figure that out, you'll be the first to know." She then pauses before saying, "You're not the only one who's alone, Brittany. We all are. And as far as Santana goes- she fights for the people she cares about. Maybe it's time you start doing the same."

Carey's nice enough to give me a ride home, considering the torrential downpour that's broken out. Lightning crashes all around. Violent gusts of wind cut through trees. As we near Lima Heights, Carey slows along the road. "I'm going to visit my mother. You're more than welcome to tag along."

It's been forever since we've visited Roz. The offer sounds great, but far more pressing items are at hand. So as she pulls just outside of Santana's building, I say, "Maybe next time. Seems that I've got something to take care of, first."

"Good for you, Brittany," she says just before pulling away.

* * *

Inside, after my mad dash through the monsoon, Eddie waits on the couch, staring blankly at the wall. "You in the mood for some hide-n-seek, Lima style?" I ask, breaking him from the trance.

Eddie smiles and nods furiously, jumping up and sprinting to locate his shoes. His smile withers, however, as a clap of thunder rattles the apartment. "Can this not wait until tomorrow?"

Poor kid doesn't know Santana very well. She could be in Canada by tomorrow. "You're flaking because of a little rain?" I ask, trying the guilt card a final time.

"I don't suppose so," he says, shaking his head. "Where to, then?"

I hesitate, not having thought this through. She's not at Carey's, that's for sure. And Santana doesn't have many other friends. A hotel, maybe? She once mentioned putting extra cash away for a vehicle, so I know she's got the funds to stay in one. My mind runs through the list. As memory recalls, there are about ten different hotels in Lima. Six motels. Sixteen starting points and I can't decide on a single one. "How'd you do it? Hide so well at the community center?" I ask Eddie.

He shrugs. "I just picked something obvious. The last place you'd think to look."

A tense moment passes, and that's when it hits me. The obvious choice and the last place Santana would ever voluntarily stay. I grab the keys from the counter, calculating how long it takes to drive to the Lopez house. We've made the walk many times before. Driving should be no issue.

I'm both giddy with excitement and plagued with anxiety when Mom barrels through the front door, soaked to the bone. She retrieves a safe-guarded paper bag from underneath her jacket, a childish grin plastered to her face. "I come bearing gifts," she announces, flaunting the paper bag.

Not wanting to lose momentum in my current resolve, I say, "Mom, you went to the store yesterday."

"No, no," she teases, placing her find on the counter. My mother then waves a hand in front, as Vanna White would do on that show with the big wheel. "This is a _celebratory_ gift."

Eddie and I exchange the most confused looks. He glances at her and asks, "What could we possibly be celebrating?"

"You haven't heard?" We both shake our heads. Her smirk doesn't falter as she boasts, "Santana. The police found her."

* * *

**misssnodgrass: I assure you, the issue will be resolved in some way. And I always thank you for reading/reviewing.**

**StephaniieC: Lol, well I certainly thank you. Maybe not a happily ever after, but the happiest that they can hope for.**

**luceroadorada: I look to resolve the whole 'hating' issue within the next chapter or so. And I certainly appreciate your kind words.**

**LoneGambit: I always appreciate your insight, and definitely appreciate the rationale. Maybe I haven't necessarily looked at letters from that standpoint. A major thanks to your kind words, as always.**

**Nikkayme: Wow, dude. I'm not trying to break any hearts, I promise. I'm merely trying to use experience as a realistic catalyst, lol. Thank you for your kind words, and I'll do my best in updating as frequently as possible.**

**gleeful (Guest): If it's any consolation, my heart breaks a bit more as this story progresses. She certainly took Santana for granted, and the comment was one of the lowest blows I could imagine. You're entirely correct. Unconditional love is a bitch, I'm afraid. Thank you for such a lovely review, and I certainly agree- life is far from butterflies and unicorns. (Though I'm sure we all wish differently.)**

_**Author's Note:**_**The poem used is entitled "I Never Said Goodbye", and is entirely in possession of Tandra Michelle Hefley. Her words were just too perfect to pass up, considering. As always, I appreciate every ounce of insight that you guys provide. It truly means the world to me.**

**Sorry for all of the sad. As 'gleeful' said, life is not all butterflies and unicorns. And I'm doing my best to portray that aspect, all while hoping to reach a decent ending. Godspeed, all.**


	16. Chapter 16

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters._**

* * *

_Santana. The police found her._

"Let's just say that if this works, which it should, we won't have to worry about Santana very long time," my mother further explains.

The information sends me sprinting to the bathroom, making it in time to hover over the sink. Heave after heave ripples through my body. The weight of my error increasing with each. I clutch both porcelain sides and stare into the mirror, whispering in disbelief. "Oh God. What have you done, Brittany?" Lightheaded and freezing, I dive into Santana's bed, pulling the covers as far as they'll allow. Praying that each tug brings this nightmare closer to its end.

I try to imagine a world without Santana. Without her laugh. Her voice. Her warm presence. A place where she no longer exists as an equal part of me. It seems impossible, creating such a realm. But my mother's vengeful, triumphant grin was enough validation that my biggest fear is quickly becoming very real. And I've created it without so much as a second thought.

When I wake, a small, warm body inhabits the left side of the bed. Santana's side. Eddie is balled up, snoring loudly. I stare blankly until a burning smell resonates. It trickles from down the hallway. In the kitchen, my mother stands by the stove, dangling sheets of paper over a blue flame. _No, no, no._ I hurry to the couch, ripping through pillows, cushions and blankets. Each effort produces a vast amount of nothingness.

"What in the hell are you doing?" I shout, snatching the torched letter from Mom's hand. It burns the tips of my fingers. Floating to the ground, dark ash splatters against white tile.

The same surprise from the other morning penetrates my mother's features. Her very reaction to the police's questioning. "Open your eyes, honey. Can't you see what she's done? She's made you sick," Mom says, ramming a finger to her temple. "You've been taken advantage of. Manipulated into dependency."

Hot tears threaten as I look down to the smoldering remains of Santana. Maybe I am as crazy as Mom insinuates. Crazy enough to cling onto a letter as my last bit of hope. Crazy enough to believe in a future with Santana, despite how I've so clearly botched up the past. Maybe this is the sign I desperately sought from my father. Any hope I had for reconciling with Santana and righting my recent wrongs existed with that letter. And now they're both up in flames.

I wordlessly dart from the kitchen and retrieve my backpack, not bothering to wait for Eddie.

* * *

This afternoon, I return from school to the sight of Mom rummaging around the apartment. Picking up and digging through various objects. Checking underneath unopened candles, in drawers, and inside the many coffee cans Santana insisted on keeping. I stand in the doorway, curious as to what has her attention. An odd sense of longing plagues me. What I would've done to receive that kind of concern from her. Then the resentment kicks in. "You already burned the letter. There's nothing left that you could possibly want."

Her eyes shift up as I finally close the door. They're frantic. Deprived of something I can't identify. "Do you have any cash?" she asks. "I need to go to the store."

I knew better than to expect an apology. Mother's always had a knack for pretending as if things haven't happened. As if ignoring problems instantly resolves them. This morning, for instance. So I shake my head, playing into the charade. "Pay day isn't until Friday," I say, "but groceries are in the fridge."

"I don't want your fucking groceries," she snaps too quickly, slamming a third coffee can onto the countertop. "I need money."

This isn't the same relaxed Mom from the past however-many years. The one so lulled by drink. And she isn't the same comforting person from a few days ago. The one that held me as I cried or served coffee to strangers. I would know, because I've been clinging onto her image for dear life. "Aren't there more pressing issues?" I ask. "Say, preparing for tomorrow?" Which is true, for she'll need to practice if she's going to continue crafting this web of lies.

Instead of answering, she laughs Santana's ironic, "Are you kidding me?" laugh before a painful grimace sets in. One of desperation. And she grabs a jacket before storming out, slamming the door behind.

* * *

Sleeplessness is the punishment for my actions, it seems. Eddie lays still as I toss and turn. He hasn't been speaking to me lately, which is okay, because I haven't got much to say. Especially since every word that pours from my mouth results in an argument or somebody's ultimate demise. So I internalize the conversations, often recreating scenes in my head.

The police morning is replayed most frequently. Both officers' eyes bearing into me. Pressure to make a decision. To respond. Seeing my mother's eyes and believing, if only for a moment, that siding with her would be the glue that pieced our family back together.

In every reenactment, instead of agreeing, I always shake my head.

But this isn't my imagination and there are no such things as time machines, as I might've believed a month ago. There is no way of taking back the choice I made. There is no way of piecing my family back together. I visit Dad in my thoughts, too. He always brings Santana back to me, as he used to with my favorite blanket. Trying to do the same outside of my imagination proves just as it did at the cemetery, though. Begging into the abyss. Receiving nothing in return.

When morning comes, I've yet to rest. Eddie rustles in the bed, and I give him a slight shake. "Wake up, bud. We've got a big day ahead." It sounds faulty. Fake. My former ally affirms this by shooting two eyes directly through me. But honestly, who can blame him?

Mom is up and bustling in the living room as we get dressed for court. I'm forced to meet the bathroom mirror once more. It proves the harshest of all critics. For my reflection does not show the red, swollen eyes that I undoubtedly have. Or a creased forehead. Or matted, unkempt hair, for that matter. Instead, staring back is the face of a complete stranger. A painful combination of the girl I used to be and someone I no longer recognize.

En route to Lima Municipal Court, I utilize the ten minute drive for sleep. When we finally arrive at the courthouse, Mom's voice stirs me from the short nap. "All right, Brittany. Let's tell the truth and get out of here as quickly as possible." She places a warm hand on my forearm. "Then we'll be able to go home and get on with our lives." _The truth._ I have to stifle a laugh at her recommendation. If Pierces were partial to the truth, none of this mess would be happening. My mother has been the poster child for any and everything opposite of it, in fact. Still, though. In a last ditch effort, I search her eyes for the faintest glimmer of honesty behind her words. That she truly believes we can move on with our lives. Together.

Imagine my surprise when there isn't any at all.

* * *

We meet in a small, back room with some lanky fellow in a worn suit. Per my mother's explanation, he's our state-appointed attorney. Mr. Leftwich.

It's short and introductory. Just long enough for him and my mother to rehearse their spiel. The questions he'll ask; the answers she'll give. They're cloaked in lies, too, but Mr. Leftwich somehow twists the examination accordingly. Crafting it to make Santana look as guilty as possible in the fewest amount of words. Detracting from the dishonesty, if only a little.

As we usher into the courtroom and sit behind a wooden table, I spot Santana from across the way. She is dressed the same as our only visit in jail. Clad in an orange jumpsuit. Hands connected by circular metal. Shoulders hunched. Eyes glued to her feet. And with all of these factors, she's still the most beautiful person in the room.

After a judge enters, bangs her gavel, and gathers names, Mr. Leftwich begins. "The prosecution calls Susan Pierce to the stand."

My mother wanders forward, silently mouthing words along the way. Practicing her responses a final time. "Susan," he opens, gallivanting across the floor. "May I call you Susan?" She nods eagerly. "When you first met Santana Lopez, what was your impression? Was she a brash character? Warm and welcoming? A pessimist? An optimist? Someone that a parent might like befriending their only child? Please enlighten us."

Mom clears her throat. "From the moment Brittany introduced us, I've always felt unsettled by Santana," she begins. "There was an air about her that read trouble. Bitter. Cold-hearted. She was a girl that I would never allow dear Brittany to be around, under normal circumstances."

"But they weren't normal circumstances, were they?" he asks.

"I'm afraid not. My husband died when Brittany was eight. She was always different from the other children, but his passing really took a toll on her. Both of us," Mom explains without a hitch. "Brittany began withdrawing. Falling into her own made-up universe. Santana was her only friend. So I allowed it."

Mr. Leftwich crosses both arms behind his back, nodding and pacing out front. "Would you say that their friendship has been beneficial for your daughter?"

Mom sighs loudly, shaking her head. A mist covers her eyes. "Far from it," she breathes. "Santana was good for her, initially. But over time, she slowly transformed Brittany into a stranger. A monster. Staying out late. Drinking. Unhappy most of the time. She wasn't my Brittany anymore. My daughter had disappeared."

The confession strikes a chord within me. Those were the very sentiments I used when Mom returned to Lima. They were meant to be comforting. An affirmation to a mother of her child's support. Yet here they are, being weaved into the rope of a noose that my best friend's future hangs from. And Santana said her parents were conniving.

"And when did you catch wind of Santana taking Brittany?" Mr. Leftwich asks.

"We were moving, so I was in Florida, looking at a house. When I found out what happened, I hurried back. For Brittany's sake."

The attorney produces a reaction of genuine concern. His eyes narrow inward in asking, "Why for her sake?"

Mom inhales sharply. "Santana's always had a temper. I was afraid she might…" but her voice trails. After collecting herself, she finishes. "I was afraid that she might harm my daughter."

"I know this is difficult. One final question, Susan, and then we'll be done," Mr. Leftwich says, pausing after. Intense silence lingers in the old building's musty air. "Has Santana ever threatened to hurt either of you before?"

"When I confronted her and said that Brittany was leaving with me, Santana became angry. Trying to be rational, I said that she would go back to jail should she lay a finger on me. Like I told the officers, she then said, 'If I could, Susan. Oh, boy. If I could.' I've never felt more threatened in my life."

The attorney smiles before ending with, "Thank you, Susan. No further questions."

* * *

The other attorney- a tall, stern-looking woman- opts against questioning my mother. "My client has declined testifying," she relays to the judge when Santana's turn presents itself.

"Very well," the older woman says, banging the gavel. A fifteen minute recess is then assigned. I hurry down the aisle in pursuit of my mother, Eddie, and Mr. Leftwich. Avoiding Santana's gaze all the while. Which isn't particularly difficult, for halfway through my mother's testimony, she resorted to her old palm scribbling. It remained that way for the rest of the morning. I, however, did not know that Maribel and Dr. Lopez would be in attendance. We exchange brief eye contact as the crowd files into the foyer.

Mr. Leftwich beams at my mother proudly. "That was _great_," he praises. "The judge ate it up. No doubt."

The queasiness from yesterday finds its way back into my stomach. Not from nervousness, necessarily. But the past hour has definitely left me on edge. Manipulating the truth so it leans in our favor. Mom's remarks about my childhood. Acting as if she remembers vividly and years of abusing her water bottles haven't caused sufficient brain damage. And for what? Revenge against Santana for all of the name calling? For taking me in when I had nowhere else to go? Maybe this is the bad stuff Carey was referring to. Because none of it makes sense.

The tall attorney hurries to Mr. Leftwich and spits, "Two weeks, Jeffery. You're going to bust my balls over fourteen measly days?"

But I don't want to hear them duel it out. So I catch Mom's arm and pull her to the hallway side nearest a pair of water fountains. "Did you really mean all of that? About me being different and not having any friends?"

"Of course not, sweetheart," she coos. "It was just necessary for the situation."

Her words soothe me to no avail. Anxiousness still courses through my veins. I admit, "This doesn't feel right. I'll go live with you somewhere, okay? Anywhere at all. You win. Haven't we done enough, though? Can't we just leave Santana be?"

"Hey," she says, grasping my shoulders. "This won't last much longer. Just speak from your heart. Be honest and the rest will fall into place."

I nod, hoping that for just once, my heart doesn't fail me.

* * *

As I take the stand, vowing to tell the whole truth and nothing but, Mr. Leftwich approaches. He and my mother were whispering about something just before. In one swift motion, the attorney smoothens out his jacket, looking back to our table a final time. Mom wears the very smirk she always does when she's about to get her way.

Silence falls. I expect questions similar to Mom's until he asks, "Brittany, what is your opinion of dolphins? Your view on the creatures?" he asks.

_Speak from the heart. Be honest and the rest will fall into place._ "They're just gay sharks," I answer confidently.

"And the summer vacation before your junior year. Where'd you spend it?"

"Lost in the sewers," I say. The answer elicits a quiet chuckle from the small crowd. I glare into the pews behind our table. Sporadic pairs of people are smiling. Eddie, seated just behind ours, wears a look of confusion.

Only now does the tall attorney stand, slamming both hands onto the tabletop. "Objection," she retorts. "Relevance."

Mr. Leftwich replies quickly with, "I have reason."

This is enough to please the judge, for she nods in agreement and says, "I allow it. Get to the point, Mr. Leftwich."

He nods, looking back to me. "I do apologize. Aside from sea creatures and summer vacations, you were also convinced that a classmate of yours was a leprechaun. Is that correct?"

Instead of boasting my answer, I merely nod. For the audience's snickering grows louder with his question, and even louder at my confirmation. Even Mom appears to be getting a kick out of our exchange. I'm trying to figure out how he could've known to ask these things. Why they would matter. Why everyone is so tickled. The judge bangs her gavel, but it's too late. The realization has quickly settled in. This scene is one I've encountered many times at McKinley. Santana used to say that our classmates were laughing alongside me. Like I was a comedian, and everything I said was some sort of punch line. But here, as the chuckles ring through the courtroom, I know differently. They're not laughing with me. They're laughing _at_ me.

"Your honor," as the giggling subsides. "Clearly, Ms. Pierce has a…delicate view on life. A view that makes her susceptible to believing irrational concepts. Unknowing to what is considered wrong by most of society. An easy target for people like Ms. Lopez." He pauses, allowing the statement to sink in. "Someone was taken advantage of in this relationship, and I think it's obvious who."

I feel my face growing red. Humiliated. Even more so when Mr. Leftwich says, "All of this is terribly confusing. Isn't it, Brittany?" I shrug, believing that an apathetic approach will lessen the blows of his implications. It does nothing to thwart Mr. Leftwich's standpoint, for he shrugs in return, grinning smugly. "Don't worry. I'm confused, too. Confused as to why someone would willingly move in with a convicted felon. One they hadn't seen in over a year. You knew that Santana had been incarcerated on drug-related charges, correct?"

"Yes, but it wasn't her fa-" and I suddenly can't speak. My throat is dry, the confession feeling like a ball of cotton. The air becomes thinner. Less breathable. Mustering a smidgen of courage, I say, "When we were little, we promised to stay together forever. I don't break promises."

"You also promised to tell the truth here, didn't you?" I nod. "Then tell me. Did Santana Lopez threaten your mother? When confronted, did she say, and I quote, 'If I could, Susan. Oh, boy. If I could.'?"

"Yes, but-"

He waves a hand. "No further questions, your honor."

* * *

Embarrassed. At the hands of my mother's guidance, I'm sure. How else would he have known to use his lawyer powers and make me sound so stupid? It's just like everybody else. At school. In glee club. Now here. There isn't time for me to continue gathering my thoughts before the mean-looking lady stands in front of my box.

"Santana tells me that the two of you befriended each other in elementary school. Care to explain?" She doesn't sound mean. In fact, her tone is somewhat comforting. Soft. Harmless. Like being honest with her won't result in my ridicule.

So I run through every detail that my memory allows. The playground. Finding Lord Tubbington. Our classmates' torment. Santana defending me. "And then I carved our initials into a tree, only because I'd seen it in a movie. We've been best friends ever since," I finish.

"Absolutely precious," she notes. "And that same nature of your relationship- did it carry on throughout the years?"

I nod. "Santana's always helped me out. She let me come live with her just after my mother left for Florida. Our house was being foreclosed on."

The attorney cocks her head to one side, eyebrow arched. "Why didn't you just go to Florida with your mother, Brittany?"

"She told me to wait until she got back. Then we'd go together."

Tall Lady then asks, "But she didn't come back, did she? At least not for quite some time?" I shake my head. Butterflies form in my stomach. Not the good kind, but the kind you get when you know something good's about to end. All of this is warranted by Tall Lady's behavior. The way she moves to their table, retrieving a folder. Perusing through said folder.

"My notes show a recent doctor's visit," she continues. "Do you remember the appointment?" I nod. Of course. The surprise consultation that I would've never conceded to had I known in advance. "The report shows a minor string of alcoholic tendencies. Tests that pinpointed your BAC far above the legal limit, and proved that it had been for some time. Care to elaborate on that?"

"Not really," I admit sheepishly.

"It's okay, Brittany," she consoles. "You're safe here. I need you to be honest with me, though. Was this because of Santana? Did she force you, a minor, to consume and abuse alcohol?"

"No. She would never. Santana was against the entire thing."

Tall Lady huffs and cocks another eyebrow. She now speaks to the judge and Mr. Leftwich. "That's odd. Surely someone who kidnapped another person and held them against their will would be able to force anything upon them? It would make things easier on Santana's part. Make Brittany less likely to refute her rationale."

She pauses, placing a finger to her chin. Then setting the folder back down before returning her attention to me. "Santana told me that there was a point in which you believed you were pregnant." I nod again. "What did you mother have to say about this?" she asks.

Before I can answer, Mr. Leftwich stands and interjects, "Who's on trial here? Your client or mine?"

The judge dismisses his protest by barking, "Sit down, Jeffery." Looking to me, she instructs, "Answer the question."

"She didn't," I say. "My mother wasn't around at that point."

"She wasn't around at that point, either," Tall Lady mutters quietly. "When was she around, Brittany? Better yet, who _was_ around when all of these events unfolded? Who helped see you through addiction? Who stood by your side during a pregnancy scare? Who let you live in her home? Provided for you? And was around when your own mother wasn't?"

A swell of emotion invades my chest. I force out a breath before muttering, "Santana."

"Exactly," she booms. "So tell me, why would someone who clearly cares for your wellbeing keep you in her apartment against your will?"

"She didn't," I whisper.

"Speak up, Brittany."

"She didn't," I repeat, more loudly this time.

Tall Lady doesn't flinch as she retrieves a sheet of paper from her table, clicks across the floor, and places it in my hands. "Top line, please."

I'm apprehensive. But with an encouraging nod from the attorney, I read aloud, "Brittany Pierce confirmed Susan Pierce's statement at nine forty-five the morning of April 22, 2012. It is only fitting that appropriate action be taken." I immediately look to Santana, who squeezes her eyes shut tightly. Even from yards away, she looks on the verge of a breakdown.

Silence fills the room. I glare from face to face, only focusing in when I return back to Santana's, who now stares at me intently. Tears stream down her face. Betrayal plagues her sunken eyes. Tall Lady chimes in a final time, breaking my trance. "So you lied?" I can only muster a timid nod. "Why would you lie about a matter so serious, Brittany?"

It's not a question, but more of an accusation. A testament to all of the wrong I've done to a girl I once claimed to love. A statement that freezes my speech as Santana continues staring. As does my mother, who I look to for some sort of nonverbal guidance. The only advice I have to work with is the consultation from earlier. _It was just necessary for the situation_.

Why does it feel that necessity is the source of my troubles? I needed to be with my mother, so I drank. Sickness followed. I needed to be with Santana, so I searched in every nook and cranny for her. Heartache followed. I needed to the love of my only remaining parent, so I let her back into my life. Despair followed. Most importantly, I need her to stay, so I said what needed to be said. Agreed to what needed to be agreed to. Sided with my mother. _This_ followed.

And now, I need to root some things from the crevices of my heart. Feelings concerning our arguments. The lying. The past ten years, in general. Above all else, I need to make things right again. The only issue being what ramifications will surely tail right behind.

Locking eyes with my mother, I say, "It was you. It was always _you_," I say, voice cracking. "I waited. For an entire week, I sat around, hoping you'd come back. Hell, I've been waiting for you to come back ever since Dad died." My face burns hot from tears that trickle down.

Mr. Leftwich jumps from his chair, sounding rushed as he says, "She's clearly under duress, your honor. I move to-"

"Sit down, Jeffrey," I snap. He does, and the room becomes devoid of even the slightest noise. "Maybe I'm not as smart as everyone else. Maybe I don't catch on to things as quickly as I should. But Santana never made me feel that way. She was always there for me, even when she wasn't. But you," my voice breaks again. "You made me feel _worthless_. Like I'd done something wrong, when all I ever tried to do was be enough for you. Everything I did was for _you_. And then you left without a single word. Like I wasn't even worth an explanation."

I look up to the judge then across to Tall Lady. Biting back more cries, sniffling, and taking deep breaths. "I don't want to do this anymore. I'm just too tired." I get up and move from the box, searching for the word from Dr. Lopez's office. The one that erases what someone says. "Recant," I finally say. "I recant my statement. Take it all back. Santana never did anything wrong, except put up with me."

Chatter starts between the individual rows. The gavel bangs. Mom looks furious as I approach the table, lean across, and mutter, "Was that honest enough?" My answer comes in the form of her open palm against the side of my face.

Madness ensues as a bailiff rushes over, but I don't stick around. Instead, I tear off down the aisle. Stopping only to cry a feeble "I'm so sorry." to Maribel and Dr. Lopez.

* * *

I sprint out into the rain as hard and fast as my legs will allow. Slowing only to regain oxygen and let out the choked sobs that clog my windpipe. The storm presses on, sending darts of rain into the side of my face. My cheek burns, legs ache, and lungs scream for relief. But I continue forward, finally slowing as I reach the apartment. Inside, I seek the fridge and grab a half-gallon milk jug. Then it's another mad dash to the Lopez house. Their driveway is empty, so I take shelter under a tree across the street. Waiting. Always waiting.

By the time a vehicle finally pulls in, dusk falls quickly. I emerge as Santana climbs from the back seat. "I'm sorry!" I shout, trying to capture her attention. A bolt of lightning flashes across the sky, boisterous claps of thunder following. My efforts succeed, for Santana gestures toward her parents, ushering them inside. They don't protest, which is odd. But as she paces toward me, her features register something I can't quite decipher. Nothing as accusatory as before. Not as unforgiving. As she nears, I hold out the jug, hoping that corniness could be my saving grace. "Still got it," I mutter.

Santana doesn't laugh. Or smile, for that matter. Instead, she purses both lips, looking upward with squinted eyes. "Brittany Pierce confirmed Susan Pierce's statement," she whispers in disbelief. And then she reaches out, taking the container from my hand. Unscrewing the cap, she finally laughs. All of this before looking into my eyes, staring through me. "She fucking _confirmed _it." Her voice a glorious instrument, playing a tune of contempt. The rain ceases momentarily. The sting of sharp pelts against my throbbing cheek disappears.

Santana then lifts the jug over my head, and the cold, white liquid runs down the side of my face.

* * *

**Fanficfan19: I replied to your PM. If it didn't come through, please let me know. I'd like to get your questions resolved.**

**StephaniieC: Dear you, your reviews always brighten my day.**

**Catlover10808: Ch. 9-("reflect the small minus symbol"), ("exhales a sigh of relief "). I apologize for not making it any clearer. That was my bad.**

_**Collective Response and Author's Long-ass Note:**_

**After perusing the reviews (there are far too many to individually reply to, for the answers would all be lengthy and very similar) it seems that there is a general consensus. Brittany is an asshole who is highly undeserving of Santana. As an outsider looking in- I agree.**

**My primary goal with this piece was to maintain a certain level of realism. Granted, it is entirely a work of fiction and therefore capable of straying away from the harsh realities of our world, but that wouldn't be fair. Not to the events or portrayed emotions. Not to the characters that all so dearly cherish.**

**Mark Twain once said, "Write what you know." And while I often believe it to be an incredibly misconstrued piece of advice, there is some truth. Having witnessed occurrences very similar to the ones of my previous chapters, I can provide only one rationalization:**

**Brittany is a fragile character whose major cross to bear is her willingness to give second chances. She is not innocent, for innocence requires a lack of experience. She is definitely experienced, but tiptoes the line between the two. I call it 'glorified naivety'. More so, she is without one parent, and though physically with the other, emotional strife plagues their relationship. So much so that Brittany is willing to do whatever it takes to keep at least one parental figure in her life. Unconditional love can often be a crippling characteristic, I believe.**

**It makes you emotionally blind to your surroundings. Forces you to make questionable decisions. And to (xoxo-Guest) who said it was very inconsistent on Brittany's part- I agree as well. We often don't realize how inconsistent we humans are until we've undergone similar situations.**

**Fiction is an area where happy endings exist. I can't deny that. And I am as much a firm believer in that ideology as the next person. And since I am also always searching for a fraction of hope within everything I read, I can assure you one thing. Harsh/strict realism will not take precedent over that hope. I, as you, love these characters and their relationship far too much to give them anything but the best, most reasonable ending. (So I apologize to those advocating that Santana be in another relationship. I simply cannot do that.)**

**I appreciate those of you who stick around on this emotional roller coaster I've constructed. And I apologize for any general pissed-offness it's caused. The pain will only last a bit longer.**

**I value each opinion, whether it be good or bad. So thank you to everyone who takes the time to read and voice themselves. And I'm thankful for the manner in which opinions have been expressed. No review possessed any snide remarks or undertones. It truly means the world.**

**I could write much more, but even I get tired of hearing myself internally talk. So I'll leave with you this: I've put you guys through the ringer. There's no denying it. And I will probably continue to do so. Like I said, at least for a little longer. But when the time comes, I will give you guys the fluffiest, most heartwarming writing my very non-fluffy hands and mind can manage.**

**Again, thanks.**


	17. Chapter 17

_**Author's Note:**** (Replies included at the bottom.) I normally detest flashbacks, but they can be decent parallels if used correctly. Fingers crossed that I didn't fuck them up. Typically, I would explain my rationale between the various scenes, but feel that it wouldn't be fair to individual readers. Everyone has their own opinion of different symbols, metaphors, etc.**  
_

_**And before I get burned at the stake for the writing's sloppiness or whatever, please have mercy. It's late, and I've been struggling with this bastard for a few days. Eventually, you just have to throw up your hands and let things be.**_

_PSA: FLASHBACKS ARE ITALICIZED. I REPEAT, FLASHBACKS ARE IN ITALICS._

**_Disclaimer: _****_I do not own Glee or any of its respective characters._**

* * *

_Summer After Sixth Grade_

_ It was a starry, windy night. The kind of night that Santana loved dearly but was too stubborn to admit to loving. So, when she sent me a text requesting that we meet by the lake just outside of her house, it came as no surprise._

_ She was perched on the grassy area about a foot away from the water. It was cool enough to where the mosquitoes wouldn't be a bother. Santana had both knees tucked to her chest, arms wrapped firmly around them. When I approached, her eyes darted up._

_ "Argument?" I asked, already knowing that her parents had said something._

_ Santana nodded and looked back to the water. The only thing more beautiful than a full moon reflecting off of a lake was the way Santana's eyes reflected a full moon reflecting off of a lake. Seriously. You could see the celestial glow in two small, whitish-brown orbs. I never had the nerve to tell her how beautiful I thought it was. But oh, boy- did I think it was._

_ We sat in silence, just as we always did by the lake. It was quiet. You didn't have to think as much. In fact, when I was sitting by her side, I didn't have to think at all. Eventually, though, she cleared her throat and asked, "Is there any chance I can crash at your house tonight?"_

_ I paused, clearing my throat. "Mom kind of locked me out. Not intentionally. She just fell asleep and couldn't hear my knocking."_

_ Santana huffed at that. "I thought I told you to call me whenever it happens," she scorned._

_ "I'm here, aren't I?" I asked, playfully nudging her. To which she smiled, if only for a second. I didn't have the nerve to tell her how much I loved her smile, either. But oh, boy- did I love it._

_ The crickets chirped. Various bugs buzzed in the distance. Santana broke the peaceful silence by sighing deeply and grabbing hold of my knee. "I wish they'd just leave me alone," she said. "Because sometimes people just need to be left alone." I knew better than to take her words at face-value. More times than not, Santana meant the exact opposite of what she said._

_ Still, I didn't know if my best friend was indirectly asking me to go home. A light squeeze on my left knee said otherwise. So I snaked a comforting arm around her back and held on to her side, resting my head on her shoulder. And when her eyes reflected the full moon reflecting off of the lake perfectly, I muttered, "I'll never leave you alone."_

* * *

Present Night

The rain picks back up, but does little to wash away the remnants of milk in my hair and on my face. "I deserved that," I admit sheepishly. In fact, I deserve a hell of a lot more. Santana doesn't respond, though. Instead, she stands conflicted in the middle of the street. Droplets pouring down around the both of us. "I said I was sorry."

Her face contorts at the apology. "Sorry can't take back what you did."

"What about second chances?" I protest a little too loudly. A little too eagerly.

Santana shrugs indifferently and nothing more. "I gave you everything I had. There's nothing left. Chances included."

Desperation takes over. I'm desperate for her to stay a moment longer. Needy for her to hear me out. But Santana doesn't just listen to people. Never has. Not in non-confrontational situations, anyway. Not when there isn't an argument to be had. Or won, on her part. Judging from her aloof body language, listening isn't in tonight's cards, either. "You promised to love me as you did in the second grade," I say.

"We're not in the second grade anymore," she snaps.

"What happened to that girl, though?" I demand. "The one that made the promise? No matter what I did, she said that she'd love me forever."

At this, the Latina flings a hand wildly into the air. She turns on a heel, both hands remaining near her head. I expect shouting, cussing, and more accusations. Something in Spanish. They never come. Instead, she speaks in the calm, apathetic tone. The kind I detest. The kind that displays disappointment above all other emotions. "I don't know, Brittany," Santana breathes. "She disappeared. Along with the girl she promised to love, evidently."

To this I cannot respond. The remark leaves me dumbfounded in the street, even as cracks of lightning flash just above. Speechlessness paralyzes me into this position. I search Santana's eyes for the light they once possessed. The reflective nature I often stared in awe at. Tonight, they don't reflect anything. They're dulled. Maybe we both have disappeared. Replaced by ghosts of ourselves.

_Say something, Brittany_, I scream I'm too late. For Santana waves a hand behind me, pointing in the opposite direction. "Go, Brittany." And when I keep still once more, she yells, "Go! Get away from me! Leave me _alone_."

Remembering the very promise I made so long ago, I walk away, merely shaking my head.

* * *

_Second Grade_

_I was huddled under the playground slide, cradling a kitten in my arms, when they found me. It was a Tuesday. Taco Tuesday in the cafeteria. "He's tired and starving," I explained to another little girl. "Maybe we can keep him as a class pet."_

_ Dave Karofsky was big, even in the second grade. So when he walked up, you could feel every ounce of his big presence. "Something must die every day," he announced, wielding a giant stick. At that point, a crowd had gathered. Our classmates enclosed me and the kitten, listening as Dave reverted back to his primal roots, one word at a time. He pointed the limb at the very thing I was trying to protect. "I think we've found today's winner."_

_ I never liked Dave Karofsky. But in that moment, I really didn't care for him. So I shielded the animal with my body, praying that second graders weren't capable of murder. When our teacher- I forget her name- approached the circle, eight-year-olds scattered at the speed of light. All except for one. A short, tan girl with dark brown hair and a scowl stood before me. Arms crossed. A quizzical look hidden beneath her frown._

_ "Name?" she snapped._

_ I hesitated at the fierceness of her tone. "Brittany," I eventually muttered._

_ "Not yours," she said. "The thing's."_

_ "No clue," I answered, only having found the "thing" twenty minutes before. And when you spend the better part of that time fending off kids with sticks, names aren't exactly top priority. "Tubbington," I quickly decided. He was so skinny, so it would've been one of those plays on words. Like jumbo shrimp or something._

_ But the mysterious Latina shook her head at my suggestion. "It needs to be classier," she said, kneeling beside me. "Like a king. Or a prince. Something that shouts, 'I survived an encounter with a buffoon.'" I laughed and she petted Tubbington on the head. "Lord Tubbington."_

_ I nodded, liking the way it rolled off of her tongue. Part of me wanted to sit there and have her repeat his name forever. "Maybe my mom will let me keep him," I said. "As a birthday present."_

_ Santana cocked her head and asked, "Your birthday, huh?" I nodded again. She then jumped up and hurried toward our class, stopping only to put a finger up and say, "I'll be right back."_

_ I watched from afar as she forced Dave in my direction. He wasn't carrying the stick anymore, but it terrified me to no end. For a moment, I thought that she was about to get me into more trouble. When they returned, she snapped a finger at him. "Sing."_

_ He shook his head furiously. "No way. I'm not si-"_

_ "I know that your dad lost his job. That makes you poor. So sing to Brittany, or I'll tell everyone," she interjected. When the tune slowly poured from his mouth, and a couple of random wanderers caught on to the sight, Santana looked so pleased with herself. And after the last "Happy birthday to you" fell from his lips, she pointed in the opposite direction, shooing him away._

_ "My gift to you," she laughed as the whistle blew, ending recess. _

_I hustled the three of us to a tree really quickly, picked up the sharpest rock I could find, and carved BSP, LT, and- Santana grabbed the rock- finishing the creation with an SL. "And mine to you," I said. _

_My teacher then yelled from afar, "Time's up, girls!" And we were best friends from that moment on._

* * *

Night One

I've decided to visit the Lopez house until Santana will speak with me. Or at least until I can fully apologize. Tonight, as I prepare to leave, Eddie waits up in the living room. "Where's Mom?" I ask. She hasn't been back to the apartment since our day in court.

Eddie looks confused until he realizes and says, "Right. I forgot that you stormed out like some sort of diva."

"Eddie."

He puts both hands up, saying, "Okay, okay." And then he proceeds to recap what unfolded after I left. Two bailiffs forcing Mom into a back room. The chaos. Maribel and Dr. Lopez's surprise. Tall Lady and the judge's equal reaction. "Who knew slapping people in court was illegal?" he mentions.

I grab my cheek, remembering the feeling vividly. The physical and emotional sting. At the end, Eddie finishes with a shrug. "I also might have accidentally mentioned to the judge about riding over in a car that doesn't belong to us. So I have a feeling that Susan won't be around for a little while."

"Probably just as well," I mutter, retrieving a rain jacket and sitting down to lace up my shoes. "Maybe bad shit will quit happening with her out of our hair."

"Can you believe that she tried to pin it on _me_?" he asks, sounding appalled. "Said that I took the car. While that's partly true, they couldn't find an Eddie Pierce in their fancy police system. And since your mom's a psycho, I guess it didn't really matter."

I struggle with my laces as he speaks. _Eddie Pierce._ The name rings through my head. Eddie sits and watches me before asking, "And where are _you_ going?"

"To speak with Santana."

He sighs loudly, shaking his head. And before I can defend my actions, Eddie puts up a dismissive hand. "Do what you have to. I'll be in bed."

The storm is rather unforgiving. When I finally reach the Lopez's rooftop, my shoes are soaked and the rain coat has done everything but its job. I can only imagine what a mess I must look. It doesn't deter me from cupping both hands and peeking inside Santana's former bedroom window, however. Inside, Santana lays on her old bed face down, arm cuddled tightly around a pillow. Her head pops up as I rap on the surface.

Cracking the glass barely, she spits, "Trespassing. Heard of it? Or do I need to call the cops to even out our score?"

Thunder grumbles in the distance. The weather slows to a drizzle. "I just want to talk. Explain myself."

Santana tilts her head to the side, huffing. "It seems that the more we talk, or the more you explain yourself, the less gets said." When I sit cross-legged outside of the window, Santana huffs even louder. If she keeps this huffing business up, she's going to huff up a lung. I wait, though. Always waiting. Maybe she'll huff up a lung and I'll save her life and she'll have to forgive me. You know, because it's impossible to be upset with someone who saves your life.

"Fine." Reaching for her phone, she says, "I gave you fourteen long months, and now all you get are fourteen short minutes."

You never understand how precious each minute is until they're limited. Quickly, I proceed to pour out the most genuine apology that I can. About taking my best friend for granted. Knowing that Santana would always come back. So much so that I pushed her away, subconsciously expecting her chase. When I can think of nothing else, and I'm entirely breathless from speaking, I wait in Santana's silence. "Say something. Please."

With sober eyes, she glances at her phone before saying, "Time's up."

* * *

_Eighth Grade_

_We were in the eighth grade when I went to the mall with my mother. Mom didn't usually take me anywhere special, so when she suggested a girls' day out, I could hardly contain my excitement. It was all I could think about during the week leading up. _

_ It's probably a good thing that Santana made me memorize her phone number, because my phone died two hours into our shopping trip. Mom suggested that we have lunch, and that I should pick out a booth. I did. And I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I waited so long that my butt hurt from being in the same place for so long._

_ When I got up to check on Mom's status with our food, she was nowhere to be found. I panicked and did the only thing I was ever told to do in a crisis. I called Santana._

_ She was almost out of breath reaching me. "Where'd she go, Britt?"_

_ I didn't know, so I just pointed in a general direction. "I sat here, just like she told me to," I rambled frantically. "You believe me, right?"_

_ Santana knelt beside me, worry spread across her face. "Of course I believe you," she assured. And then she hurried to the security desk, gesticulating wildly as she spoke to one of the guards. When he didn't immediately respond, she crossed her arms and tapped a foot, forcing him away from his lunch. _

_ Her cellphone was on the table, and for two hours, I watched it buzz with call after call from Maribel. When Santana finally returned, she called back, arguing in Spanish. I was always getting Santana into trouble with her parents. This time was no different. As she hung up and frowned, I concluded, "She's mad at me."_

_ "Is not," she groaned, frowning at her phone once more._

_ "It's okay. Mom's mad at me, too," I explained. "That's why she wandered off. She only walks away when she's upset. Helps her clear her mind."_

_ Two hours later, after the security guards found her asleep in a bathroom stall, Santana offered me a ride. "They'll take her home, B," she said, coaxing me from the booth. "You can stay with me tonight."_

_ I always liked spending the night at Santana's, but this instance was different. Sure, I would sneak over to her house if Mom forgot to unlock the door or kept me awake with her midnight antics. But those were honest mistakes. I'd upset her in some way, and needed to know what the issue was, just so I could remedy it. Make her happy again._

_ So when Maribel passed my neighborhood, I made her stop on the side of the road. "I need to be there when she gets home," I said._

_ Maribel was upset with me, too, so she didn't bother protesting. I'd made her wait in the car for two hours. Santana, on the other hand, twisted her face. And she kept it twisted until Maribel barked something from the front seat. Santana sighed and eased her expression. Defeated. "Hey, B," she called out. "If anything goes wrong, promise me that you'll come over."_

_ I smiled from the sidewalk, nodding my head. "I promise."_

* * *

Night Three

I've been climbing up to the roof every night around midnight or so. Where she was rude and standoffish the first visit, Santana isn't as quick to shoo me away. In fact, she sits on the other side as I talk. My voice is raspy from enduring the nights of torrential downpour, but it's thankfully stopped. Now, all I must endure are muggy temperatures and ruthless mosquitos. Anything to be near her, if only for fourteen minutes.

Tonight, as I lie back and look to the sky, pretending that Santana's lying beside me, her voice cracks out from behind. "I've only got one question," she says. I turn to catch her glare. "Why? After everything I did for you. _Why_?"

It's the first question she's asked. It's also the hardest. One I haven't given much thought to, purely because I have no idea. "I don't know," I admit. "I was angry, I guess. Or confused. Or caught up in the moment. I just don't know."

"After everything she did, though," Santana pleads, voice hitching. "Why pick her?"

"It's never been a matter of choosing between you two," I explain. "Like I said before, I knew you cared about me. And I took that for granted. I spent too much time vying for the love of people I'll probably never get it from." The confession hurts. Mostly because with the more I say, the realer it becomes. "Maybe if I get hit by a bus or something, she'll care."

Santana laughs her ironic laugh. "Of fucking course," she says, looking down. "Seems about right. I've always lost to Susan. Why should then or now be any different?" And before I can further clarify, Santana mumbles a soft, "Goodnight, Brittany." before the window closes shut.

_Beginning of Sophomore Year_

"_If sex is dating, then Santana and I are dating."_

_ I didn't know why it fell from my mouth. Mom always said my mouth would get me into trouble. When Santana stopped dead in her tracks, clutching the cell phone to her ear, I knew Mom's advice was accurate._

_ As we both hung up, I felt Santana's eyes tear into me. We stood in the middle of the hallway, staring at each other. "I'm sorry," I muttered._

_ "No worries," she said before turning toward the other end. _

_ Later that day, I caught her near our lockers. She worked furiously at opening hers, though the quicker her fingers moved, the less progress was made. I grabbed the hand and held it still. "You're mad at me."_

_ "Would you cut that out?" she spat. "Quit assuming that everyone's mad at you. They're not. I just can't open my locker."_

_ I kept quiet, still vividly remembering Santana by the lake so many times. How every time she said something, she often meant the opposite._

* * *

Night Five

Santana's been talking to me a little more. It's all small talk, and most of the time she sounds incredibly hurt as explanations arise. But we're speaking, nonetheless. She's even resorted to waiting by the window until I show. It should be a hopeful sign, right?

I'm all talked out at this point, though. So tonight, we just sit. And when the time nears to a close, I retrieve my phone. "Do you ever think about the soundtracks of our lives?" I ask. "Like, if you're walking down the street, what song would play? Or any situation, really. The background music."

"Not really," she says.

"Here," I say, sliding my phone through the crack. "I'd stand in the yard with a boom box if I wasn't terrified of being electrocuted. This will have to do. Just press play." Santana looks apprehensive, but I give her a supportive nod.

_ It's been long enough that I can think of you_

_ It's been long enough that I can speak to you_

_ But I don't really think that you'd want to anymore_

I dare to look at her. Santana's head is bowed down, eyes closed. She listening, and it's all that I could've hoped for.

_Yeah, I could've done much better for you_

_ Yeah, I could've done much better for you_

_ But you could've done much better for me, I'm sure_

Santana's frowning now.

_What if we got it all wrong?_

_ What if we got it all wrong?_

_ What if we got it all, what if we got it all wrong?_

_ It's gotta be hard, what you're going through._

_ And I get what you say, but it's what we do._

_ That got us here, and I guess what's done is done._

When the song finally comes to an end, I stand, knowing that the time has, too. "You're mad at me. I get that," I begin.

Santana cuts me off. "I'm no- just cut it out, okay?" she says coldly.

"Cut what out, Santana?"

"Using the guilt card to your advantage. Everyone's not mad always angry with you," she breathes. "So stop saying it like that. For God's sake- stop. I'm not mad. Well, I am. But I'm hurt. Terribly. You broke my heart in that courtroom. I'm trying to figure out how to get past it."

I take this as my cue to leave, and begin the descent toward the grass. "Eddie and I will move out just as soon as I can find another place. You can have the apartment back. To help you work through things."

"Stay," Santana says quickly. "In the apartment, I mean. A kid- Eddie-needs stability. In the meantime, at least." She gets the deep-thinking face before saying, "Next month's rent is underneath the mattress. Given that Susan didn't get her hands on it."

"You can come back, you know," I say. "It's your apartment. We won't bother you. And unlike what your letter said, you can always come home."

At this, Santana shakes her head. "I can't," she says. "Because I'm still trying to figure out where that is."

* * *

_Later Part of Sophomore Year_

_I was sitting on a bench outside of McKinley when Santana slid in next to me, saying, "Puck's such an asshole."_

_They broke up regularly, so I quit listening. Instead, my mind reeled over what had just happened. "She doesn't love me anymore. She's mad at me again," I said. Santana hated when I used the argument, but it was the only rationale I could provide. "And you can't love the people you're mad at." I didn't know what I had done wrong, but a nasty voicemail from my mother said it was something big. On that day of all days._

_ "Like hell you can't," Santana spat, disgust filling her face._

_ "You're mad at Puck. And now you don't love him anymore."_

_ "I never loved the bastard to begin with," she said. He was just a warm body. Besides, he quit caring about me."_

_ That was it. What I needed to figure out most. Why Mom thought I'd quit caring. So I asked, "How can you tell?"_

_ Santana took a deep breath, fiddling with her hair. "You know someone doesn't care anymore when they ignore or forget the little things."_

_ "Little things?" I asked. "Like what?" Taking the trash out or unloading the dishwasher? Depositing my mother's unemployment, which I had done that morning. From a research standpoint, and for future reference, I was trying to commit the little things to memory. So Mom would never feel like I didn't care about her again._

_ "Like wishing your best friend a happy birthday, you goof," she joked, wrapping both arms around my neck. It was the best Santana hug to date. Never had I felt safer. "Which reminds me…" she began, letting go and digging into her backpack. Santana then placed a DVD copy of The Lion King in my hand. "Since you broke the other one."_

_ I laughed and hugged her again. "Who knew there was such a thing as watching your favorite movie too many times?"_

_ "Not me," Santana muttered tiredly. She hated The Lion King, but always let me watch it when I came over. "All right. The birthday girl gets to choose where we have dinner. Breadstix or Breadstix?"_

_ Just as we were about to leave school, I grabbed her arm a final time. "Sure you're not mad?"_

_ Santana's face relaxed. She smiled, saying, "I could never be mad. The little things, remember? Besides, I love you too stinking much."_

* * *

Night Thirteen

Tonight, Santana waits by the window. Tonight, I've decided, will be my last visit. And tonight, I'm hoping that my former best friend realizes just how sorry I am.

I've been compiling a list for Santana, much similar to the letter she gave me. Reasons. Explanations and the like. When she cracks the window a bit more, I slip the list through. "You told me why you've done everything that you have. I've only done one important thing in my life, and here are the whys." Before she opens the paper, I proudly include, "I even wrote in pen this time."

Santana carefully unfolds it, eyes widening as she reads the title aloud. "Eighty-seven Reasons Why I Fell Insanely in Love with Santana Lopez and Plan on Doing It Again." She then skims the paper, eyes slowly moving across-and-down. Across-and-down. "I do not snore," she mumbles under her breath.

As her head dips lower, tears form in the corner of both eyes. The big kind that are destined to fall. And they do. "The last one's my favorite," I whisper, trying to console her.

"Because I'm Brittany Susan Pierce and you're Santana Marie Lopez and we love each other and it's all that's ever going to matter," she reads. This time, three times the amount of tears breaks free. She sniffles, looking up to me. Eyes half-open. Mouth slightly open, as well.

"Listen, Santana," I begin, well aware of the dwindling time. "I hurt you. I betrayed you. I was blind to your efforts, and I've damaged you in more ways than I could ever hope to repair." My voice trembles as she continues crying. Seeing Santana upset always makes me cry. Knowing that I'm the reason behind her tears makes speaking even more difficult. But I take a deep breath, sniffling and continuing, "You're not ready to forgive me, and I can accept that. And if you're never ready, then that's fine, too. At least it's honest."

"Brittany," she says.

But I'm speaking too quickly, afraid that my thoughts will disappear with a loss of momentum. "And I know that honesty isn't really our deal. We've lied so much to protect each other that the truth seems like the biggest lie of all. But this is one hundred percent truthful. I wouldn't, I couldn't make these things up."

"You don't-"

"You saved my life over and over again, Santana. With the drinking. With Mom. Probably a million times before that, too. I understand that it took me forever to realize this," I say. "I've owed you everything and repaid nothing. So, whether you want me to or not, I'm going to try. I'm going to try really hard at making things better. And I need- I'd like to believe that you care enough to one day consider at least trying, too. To forgive me, I mean."

Where she was trying to interject moments before, Santana remains quiet. Instead, she keeps looking to her phone. Seconds pass and she looks again. This repeats for the better part of a minute. I stand, realizing that our final meeting is coming to a close. "Time's up. I know," I say, turning toward the ledge. "No worries, Santana. I'll try somewhere else. I won't be up here to bother you anymore."

At the sound of ripping, I turn. Santana tears away at the bottom of my list, scribbling on the blank space. She folds it in half before extending the scrap toward me and says, "Goodnight, Brittany."

On the way to Lima Heights, when the seemingly never-ending rain picks up once more, I should be upset. More cold wetness isn't what my health needs. But it doesn't matter because I've never felt so good. So cleansed. The slip of paper remains tucked in my pocket, safe from the water.

In the apartment, I don't climb into bed alongside Eddie. Instead, I plop on the couch. It feels as soft and comfortable as ever. Eddie snores loudly, but it doesn't matter, either. Not when you feel like Charlie just after he found the golden ticket. This is better, actually. This slip of paper is my ticket. And while it's nothing certain, the scrap of white is currently my greatest beacon of hope.

By morning, I've slept more serenely than I have in the past months. I retrieve the slip from underneath my pillow, reading it for the millionth time in eight hours. Two words that hold more meaning than the lengthiest books.

_Happy Birthday._

* * *

**StephaniieC: I know I should have done it from the beginning, but that's not as much fun, is it? Lol. As always, thanks for your input.**

**ichigo111981: You're right. I don't have a clue, either. But I'm sure I'll figure it out as some point. Haha, and I appreciate your reviewing.**

**LoneGambit: Though your heart aches, my heart warms at your review. I appreciate your kind words, and am thankful for readers like yourself.**

**UnholyBitch: I apologize for draining you so. (But thanks for reading/reviewing, anyways.)**

**xoxo (Guest): You're entirely correct. And I always love reading your insight, for it provides the angles from which I cannot see. It's a tricky situation, all of this. And I'm doing my best to handle it appropriately. As always, I appreciate your words.**

**JJLives: Firstly, thank you for finally reviewing. Secondly, while I would never wish anyone to relate to the situation, it's always nice when a story is semi-relatable. If that makes any sense. Old habits definitely die hard. I appreciate your reading, and I will certainly keep updating.**

**Catlover10808: Never a problem. (And you're right- she's an ass.)**

**Guest: It seems that they've both caused extensive damage. I am, however, glad that you feel sorry for Brittany. It makes my job a fraction of a bit easier. Thank you for reading/reviewing.**

**luceroadorada: It's a stick situation, dude. One that people involved with having a difficult time seeing clearly. No worries. I cannot stand third-party pieces.**

**Guest: Wow. Your words. Just...wow. It's truly flattering to have that recognized, and I thank you for it. Even the "looking forward to and dreading" snippet made me smile.**

** : I thank you for your kind words, and to your craving I say, "Here's more."**

**Guest: I certainly appreciate it. Realism is what I longed to reach, and very well could be my demise at some point. Lol. **

_**Sorry for less extensive responses. Like I said, it's terribly late. Credit for the song included goes to Wakey!Wakey! for "Got It All Wrong".**  
_


	18. Chapter 18

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

* * *

I must've dozed off from being so overwhelmed with happiness, because I'm awoken to the sound of Eddie barreling around in the kitchen. When the slip of paper is nowhere to be found, I'm thrown into full panic. This lasts for the better part of two minutes until Eddie nonchalantly calls out, "Quit freaking out. I've got it."

Rubbing at sleepy eyes, I poke my head through the narrow over-counter opening. He's now grumbling under his breath. Pans of all shapes and sizes litter the white countertop. "What on earth are you doing?" I ask.

"Savages!" he dramatically exclaims, placing a hand to his chest. "Damn savages. How does anybody live like this?"

"Firstly," I say, reaching into the refrigerator for a bottle of water. "No cussing. We've discussed this. Secondly- live like what?"

Now kneeling down, eye level with a lower cabinet, Eddie blindly moves a hand upward. Searching the workspace for something. Nimble fingers stop on the recognizable piece of paper, which I quickly grab. He then stands up, frowning at a rectangular pan. "Birthday cake. Your birthday. Today. This will have to do," Eddie says, distracted and reaching for a pencil, scribbling on a sheet of notebook paper.

"Do you have work tonight?" he asks. I shake my head, standing in awe of the quickness at which the eleven-year-old works. "Good." He hands me the sheet of paper. "I need you to pick these up after school."

I don't ask any questions. The list consists of what I assume to be basic cake stuff. Flour. Eggs. Sugar. Powdered sugar. Vanilla. I think to the extra (what little there is) spending money I have put away. Buying these shouldn't be too detrimental to the fund. I wander into the bedroom and get dressed for school, returning to a very unready Eddie. "You need to be dressed, punk," I say, playfully pushing his head.

"Not going," he says, propping two feet onto the coffee table. "If that's all right with you." I hesitate, leery of myself being alone in Lima Heights, much less a child. But he hops up, speaking quickly, "I'll keep the door locked. Promise. And won't leave. I just- I have some things that I want to take care of. Supplies I need to make sure we have. Besides, a kid can only take so much of that singing and dancing around that you glee people do."

I laugh inwardly, realizing just how much he sounds like Santana. "Fine," I say, grabbing my backpack. "Just for today. But the door stays locked. And you stay inside."

Eddie nods furiously, grinning. "Don't skimp out on the vanilla," he says as I open the door to leave. "Get the good stuff." I nod. And just as I begin down the stairs, the door pops open again and he calls out, "And Brittany." I look up. "Happy birthday."

* * *

In between classes, as I'm digging through my locker, searching for a geometry book, Santana approaches me. "I know that you're big on birthdays and all," she begins, clutching a pile of books to her chest. "So I got you something, but it's at my parents' house."

"You didn't have to," I nonchalantly say, feeling my heart warm at the gesture.

Santana barely cracks a smile before it disappears. "Who am I to break tradition?" We always get each other a present. Up until middle school, I even got her something for my birthday. "You sound like shit, by the way."

I've caught something of a cold from being so exposed to the elements. Scratchy voice. Coughing. "You see, I hurt this girl very badly. So I sat out on her roof for two weeks, trying to convince her that I didn't mean to."

Santana shrugs at this and begins turning to leave. "Eddie's baking a cake," I blurt out. "He said that I'm supposed to buy the good vanilla. Whatever that is. I figured that since you're the more knowledgeable cook, you could come with me to the store after school." Santana bites her lip and shifts her eyes downward before nodding feebly. Then I nod. And she nods again.

The last bell can't come quickly enough. I'm antsy throughout geometry, and on the border of a complete meltdown by history. Anxious for the day to be over. Anxious to be near Santana. When the bell finally rings, I dart from my desk and into the hallway. Santana waits by the exit.

I expect to walk, as we always do, but she veers off toward a parking spot. "Perks of being in the Lopez's good graces," she explains, sticking a key in the door. It must be nice. I'm forced to walk everywhere because you're not allowed to keep stolen vehicles. Riding to the grocery store is tensely quiet, mind the occasional snippet of obvious information. If only for talking's sake.

Where it might have been Santana's job to push the cart a month ago, I find myself taking on the task. Allowing Santana to maneuver through the aisles, picking out the items from Eddie's list. Things I otherwise would have been oblivious to alone. "When did the kid learn to bake, anyway?" she asks, placing a bag of flour into the buggy.

"Didn't ask," I answer. "He seemed confident enough this morning, so I agreed."

"Seems about right," Santana mumbles, now checking a carton of eggs. Making sure they aren't cracked.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask defensively.

Santana cuts her eyes from the eggs to me. Shrugging and putting the carton down, she says, "No reason."

We carry on throughout the store, remaining as withdrawn as the ride over. What did she mean? Do I agree to things to quickly? Am I naïve? Gullible? The questions reel through my mind.

I resolve to not fret over the remark any longer, however, knowing full and well that Santana often says things purely out of spite. And she has plenty of spite geared toward me. "He's over at Carey's right now. I'm not sure where to leave him at this point," I ramble. "School's almost out, so there's no sense in enrolling. If he were a girl, I'd probably put him in some sort of dance class. But Eddie doesn't like that stuff. Eddie's… just Eddie."

"You're doing it again," she says.

"What, Santana?" I ask. "What could I possibly be doing wrong this time?"

Santana huffs and peers at the shelving. Moving boxes around. "Getting attached to something that could be gone tomorrow," she says, grabbing a box of baking soda.

"But he won't be. Contrary to popular belief, some people don't mind being around me," I argue.

"I didn't say that," Santana breathes.

"You didn't have to."

I didn't plan on arguing tonight, but I also didn't expect having to defend Eddie. The Latina undoubtedly senses the same, for she rolls her eyes, sighing. Taking the edge of the cart, Santana speaks from affront. "You did the very same for Lord Tubbington, and we saw how that turned out. Children aren't kittens. You can't stick a collar on them and call it a day." We stop. "I know his type, Brittany."

So I ask, "And what exactly is his type?"

"Resentful. Sarcastic. Has a hard time staying in one place for too long," she responds.

"Sounds like someone I know," I whisper. The cart halts to a stop again, and I think that Santana is about to turn around and snap a nasty comment, but she's bending over a display of some sort. All kinds of long, dark brown pods are placed on the table. Retrieving a clear plastic bag, she grabs a handful of the pods and wraps them up. "Speaking from experience, people just need someone who'll stick around. Someone like me. Like us."

"Like you," Santana dismisses, clearly not wanting any part of Eddie.

"Fine," I say. "I guess I thought that you could help out. Or might want to. Give some advice, in the very least."

She whips her head around. "How would I know? Just because I dressed up as Uncle Jessie one year for Halloween, or slept with Puck a couple of times, doesn't mean I know what every boy needs."

I put up two surrendering hands. "Because you're Santana," I admit. "You just know things."

Santana scoffs as she leads us toward the checkout line. Those pods she picked up must be the good vanilla, because they cost two times more than most of the other items combined. I can physically feel my eyes widen at the final price. That is, until Santana steps around me and hands a piece of plastic to the cashier. She shrugs. "Another perk."

I think about those perks the entire ride to Lima Heights, sounds of classical music filling the remaining void. Maybe we should've had a falling out some time ago. Purely for the perks, of course. Perks make our lives easier. And after that conversation, I could use easy. When Santana pulls to a stop just outside of our building, we both sit for a moment, waiting for the other to speak. "Do you want to step inside for a little bit?" I ask. "Eat a slice of cake?"

She coughs. "I've got work tonight, and I can't be late."

"It shouldn't take that long," I say.

But Santana shakes her head, shifting the vehicle into gear. "I really should get going." I step outside, and she's gone before I can mutter a "Thanks."

* * *

It actually does take a long time to make cake from scratch, according to Eddie, whose eyes light up when I show him what we bought. And I am quickly informed that the vanilla pod things are, in fact, not pods, but beans. Per Eddie's expertise, they're the best ingredient to use.

"Where'd you learn to bake, anyway?" I ask as he opens the oven.

"Lived with a great aunt for a couple of months," he says, but sounds sidetracked. A small rectangular piece has his attention. Eddie walks to me, placing the DVD in my hand. "She went crazy, but taught me before that."

I've ceased to listen, for the plastic case now has my focus. It's The Lion King, much like the one Santana kept in her old bedroom at the Lopezs. Much like the one I made us watch over and over. Tears threaten in my eyes. The happy kind, of course. The kind you get when little morsels of hope start appearing more consistently. Especially when you'd decided to give up on looking for them.

After the cake is fully cooked, properly cooled, and iced with homemade frosting, Eddie rummages through the drawers looking for some sort of candle. He then snaps his fingers, points to me, and asks, "Do you still have Crayons?"

I point to the bedroom. "Any but the red one."

The kitchen smells of chocolate, and it's absolutely glorious. I'm sitting soaking in the aroma when it's cut short by a knock at the door. Ever since the debacle that was Mom's return, I've made it a point to check the peephole before doing anything.

An unfamiliar figure dances back and forth outside. Jittery legs. Arms crossing, uncrossing, and crossing again. Like someone with a full bladder who's last in line for the bathroom. I'm hesitant in opening, on account of the fact that their face is hidden, but decide to, anyway. Not without first placing a firm grip on the door-side baseball bat.

I suppose the bald head should have been a dead giveaway. Or maybe the disproportioned body. Regardless, it's evident that Creepy Bald Guy doesn't recognize me. Which is understandable, for his line of vision was often blocked by whatever piece of furniture he was carrying out of my former house. Ashen stubble has formed on his face. He looks significantly older. Seasoned.

His eyes widen when I fully open the door. I'm clearly supposed to be somebody else. "Susan Pierce said that she'd be here," CBG says, flashing a handwritten note.

"She's not," I say quickly.

This isn't enough, and I probably shouldn't have expected it to be. "Any clue as to when she will be?" he asks.

I shake my head, trying to keep the exchange short, and he bites his lower lip. The bathroom dance begins again, but CBG doesn't stick around to say anything else. Instead, he bolts down the stairs and across the courtyard, displaying the actions of a person arguing with themselves.

"Who was that?" Eddie asks as I close the door, waving an orange Crayon about.

"No one," I say, forcing a smile. "Now how about we cut that cake? It's my special day and I'm freaking starving."

* * *

Eddie's resorted back to sleeping on the couch, but I convince him that there's enough room in Santana's bed for us to rest comfortably. Under normal circumstances, I'd equally bask and wallow in sleeping alone. But ever since CBG's visit, I've been a bit on edge. Jumping at the slightest noises. Double-checking the locks. Moving Santana's bat from the living room into the bedroom. You never can be too careful. Especially when it comes to any and every one that my mother has affiliated with.

Despite all of this, I've decided to begin each day anew. Reciting the same bit of information every morning. _Santana's letter said that she didn't want hope. That she couldn't bear the false promises it brought. I, Brittany Susan Pierce, am the deliverer of a better hope. Endowed with the seemingly impossible task of regaining her best friend's heart. The sole keeper of a ten-year promise._ It seems that the more I repeat it, the more possible it is of becoming a reality.

At glee the next day, nobody wishes me a happy belated birthday. They seemed to forget every other day, too. Actually, the only words directed toward me are about Eddie. "Where is the little man, anyway?" Puck asks when there's a lull in rehearsal.

"With a friend," I say. Which is true. Carey has agreed to watch him while I'm at school and work. She was patient enough with a disabled grandmother, so an eleven-year-old should be no match.

CBG is still fresh in my mind, though. So I pour myself into the routine, trying to wash his image away. We've pretty much nailed the routine for Nationals, so practice is geared toward prom. I'm supposed to perform and dance to a song about dinosaurs. It fits in with the event's theme, and the creatures aren't all that bad. Even though I would prefer a night of unicorns- animals that _aren't _extinct- dinosaurs will have to suffice.

Afterward, there's some chatter about who's taking who as a date. The obvious couples aren't mentioned. I'm not terribly worried about going with anyone, but it doesn't stop Sam from signaling for my attention after the bell rings. He jumps from the middle row of chairs and hurries over. "I'm just going to come out and ask," he says in one breath. "Would you like to accompany me to prom?"

"I appreciate it, Sam," I say. "But I've already got someone in mind."

* * *

Though I'm not going to ask her about prom any time soon, I do make an effort at inviting Santana over to the apartment after work. It's windy out, but the aura of the diner's inside is serene. I stand, watching as Santana maneuvers from table to table, brandishing a smile at those who sit. It's entirely phony. The real Santana smile isn't that big. Which must mean she's having a rough night.

Rough nights don't deter Brittany Susan Pierce's efforts, however. Nor is a single argument going to break my spirit. Or a creepy stalker, for that matter. So, when Santana is at a table nearest the door, I step inside. Putting plenty of space between myself and the counter, should her boss not want me in here. Again.

"Hungry yet?" I call out, propping my elbow onto a booth's top. "I'm convinced that Eddie's chocolate cake is the best in all of Ohio. Maybe even better than yours." If sincerity isn't enough to lure Santana back in, then competition must become the bait. Three pairs of eyes accompany hers from the booth.

She actually stops a customer mid-sentence to look up and shake her head at me. Eyes begging me to leave. Little does she know—pleading eyes don't deter Brittany Susan Pierce's efforts, either.

So I hop over to the table, wrapping an arm tightly around Santana's shoulders, should she try to flee. She tenses in my grasp. "Folks, let me tell you a little something about this one," I say, addressing the confused clients. "Aside from being the most talented waitress in the tri-state area, she's also a stubborn old cuss. Won't budge for anyone. Not even me. And she's got a nice ass, but that's beside the point," I whisper, eliciting a chuckle from the only male in the party of three. I let go of Santana's shoulders, leaning in toward her ear. "You're a stubborn one, Santana Lopez," I whisper. "And it's reason number eighty-eight why I'm so outrageously in with love you." I then place a teasing kiss to her cheek and skip from the diner, not once looking back.

I practically skip the entire way to Carey's apartment. In fact, I'm so out of breath from skipping that Carey suspects something's wrong when she opens the door. "How'd he act?" I ask when my breathing finally steadies.

"Really well," Carey says. "He's good company. A smart kid. It's been lonely around here, so it was nice having someone to talk to. Child went on and on about the cake he made and how you won't let him touch the last piece."

I nod. "Saving it for Santana. I'm intent on getting her to stop by, even if I must bribe her with food."

"And how's that working out?" Carey asks. I shrug, not entirely sure how much progress has been made. It seems that every time we take a step forward, Santana's insistent on falling back twelve more. "Still fighting, huh?"

"She's fighting me, all right," I sigh. "Fighting like hell."

Carey chuckles at this. "Sounds like Santana. Stubborn as a mule, that girl. Stops by most Sundays, but hasn't once mentioned a Mr. Eddie Pierce."

I look over to Eddie, who's flipping through a scrapbook, paying no mind to our conversation. "I wouldn't imagine. She's not too keen on me keeping him."

"He's takes after the both of you, I've noticed," Carey says. "Caring and too sassy for his own good. But there's this cloudiness in the poor thing's eyes. Something I haven't seen in anyone his age. Like someone who's seen too much and been through even more." I nod in agreement once more as Carey places a finger to her chin. "Judging by the first time I met Santana, when she began visiting with my grandmother, and up until now, I'd say that it's just her nature. Turning away from rash ideas. Some people reject the unfamiliar out of fear. Others do their best to ward off anything that hits too close to home. Also out of fear."

The words resonate. This makes all of the sense in the world. Most of the time, all I can recognize is how terrifyingly much Eddie reminds me of Santana. And Santana's comments from the grocery store, they only further verify the idea. But fear? She's not afraid of anything that I can think of. It doesn't make sense. "The old Santana would've jumped at the idea of helping out," I eventually say.

"Times change and so do we, I'm afraid," Carey breathes.

I sigh. "She seems to have forgotten. Like Bernadette did."

"Try reminding her then," she says. "Help Santana remember who she used to be. Lord knows that all of those Christmas decorations were my life saver."

I smile and nod, calling out to Eddie. Digging through my pocket, I produce the only money that I can for Carey's help. "It's not much, I know. But things are kind of tight right now. With it being just the two of us." As we're about to leave, I catch myself in the doorway. "By the way, how's Roz?"

"Getting along well enough. Just as we all are. And just as you should be," she laughs, nudging me along. "It's not safe to be out this late."

When Eddie and I cross the grassy area and near our building, I think over the past two days. Carey's advice. Santana's worries. "You're not thinking about taking off, are you?" I ask out of the blue. "Like, you're cool with hanging out with me for a while?"

Eddie mulls this over for half of a second before nodding. "I'm cool with it if you are."

We reach the stairs. "Of course I'm cool with it."

"Then I'm cool, too," he smiles.

I smile back. "Cool."

* * *

The scene is the same for the next week. Dropping Eddie off, going to school, then work, popping by the diner, and picking Eddie up. Repeat.

Tonight, Santana doesn't let me make it very far into my spiel before she asks, "Can't you just bring the damn cake with you? I can't keep stopping like this."

"A woman worried about her career. I do believe that's become reason number eighty-nine," I laugh. Santana rolls her eyes but grins."But I can't just _bring_ it to you. A cake snatcher might be on the loose. I can't risk that. You'll just have to come by the apartment." When she begins shaking her head, I skip away again, calling out, "Just think it over!"

* * *

Carey has errands to tend to tonight, so she'll be dropping Eddie off for me. Which means I have optimal time to spread good vibes all over the diner. So, swinging around the metal door pane, I belt out the song lyrics that have been equally loud in my head throughout the day. "_It seems like every time I try to make it right, it all comes down on me. Please say, honestly, you won't give up on me. And I shall believe."_

My eyes close and I'm about to start another verse, when Santana's strong hand yanks me outside. She looks completely exasperated by my impromptu concert. "Are you drinking again?" she huffs.

Despite her agitation, I don't falter in optimism. If anything, her response means that the frequent visits are having some effect. So I shake my head, laughing. "I had a song in my heart. But I've never felt better." Which is entirely true. Nobody warns you about the dangers of Sheryl Crow songs infiltrating your thoughts. A Sheryl Crow song will sucker punch you right in the heart. And nobody gives you a heads up when it's about to happen, either. But when it does, there's no sense in fighting.

At this, Santana clears her throat, cutting both eyes to the glass. "It'd probably be a good idea if you stuck with dancing," she says. And I'm about to take it to heart when she cracks a smile with half of her mouth. The only other sign besides a nudge to the ribs that means she's joking.

"Listen, B. I'm not ready to come play house or anything," Santana begins. I'm about to protest when she holds up a hand. "But I'm off this weekend, and I was thinking that maybe I could stop by. Just to see if the kid's as good a cook as you say."

I nod, trying to play it cool while every ounce of my body revolts. Santana smiles warmly and so do I. Then we're making our way in opposite directions. By the time I reach Lima Heights, I'm absolutely giddy with joy. This feeling… it's better than any buzz I've ever had. In fact, I'm so blinded by the emotional high that I don't realize what's happening until it's too late. At the top of the staircase, just in front of the apartment, stands CBG.

He's still doing the bathroom dance, but his eyes are now plagued with fear. The expression only slightly changes as I begin climbing. When I'm at a safe distance- four or five stairs down- he asks, "Is she back yet? Susan. I really need to speak with her."

"No. No she's not," I mutter in annoyance.

This sends CBG into an internal frenzy, pressing both palms into his face. "Well, will you see her any time soon?"

"Not planning on it," I mutter again.

My nerves are still on edge, imagining Eddie all of ten feet away. What might've happened had I not shown up when I did. But CBG finally relaxes a tad, looking down and shaking his head defeatedly. When he looks back up, tears are in his eyes. I feel bad for the guy and whatever trouble he's in. "If you do, tell her that I need the check she promised me. Okay?"

Normally I would smile and send him on his way, but I'm busy thinking about how Santana would handle this situation. After all, confrontation is more her forte. And something tells me that she'd be leery about him coming back should the sendoff be too gentle. You've got to make an impression. So I steel my voice, and say in my harshest tone, "Look, dude. Susan was arrested. She's not coming back here. And I suggest that you do the same."

It's weak, but it's the best I can do. But there's this pang in my stomach. The gut feeling that Dad always swore by. And right now it's saying that, in the case of banishing Creepy Bald Guy from Lima Heights, my best isn't good enough.

* * *

**StephaniieC: Hell, wouldn't we all? Lol. As always, I appreciate it.**

**misssnodgrass: I don't typically enjoy flashbacks, but I'm glad that you do. And I appreciate your words. (Even if I devoted an entire chapter to that damn list, I highly doubt that I could pull it off. Lol.)**

**JJLives: "Fucking right and that trick had better not back track." Hahaha. Regardless of length, thank you for taking the time to review.**

**UnholyBitch: That's what I'm saying.**

**ichigo111981: Forgiveness is a different for process for everyone. And in this instance, it's difficult to measure just how long. Thanks for the review.**

**luceroadorada: I appreciate that, lol, and thank you for the awesome input.**

** xoxo (Guest): Speaking of sweet, it seems that your snippets always get to me. Honestly, you've got a better grasp on this story than I sometimes feel myself to have. As far as taking Santana or her nature for granted, the more that this piece unfolds, it appears that the trust was always second nature. Not even so much as a second thought given to it. So, when decision time came, Brittany was somewhat oblivious to the..extent, I guess. (Not that she didn't know the ramifications of her doing, but a pressuring emotional situation was something that she hadn't experienced, and immediately leaned toward the side she'd been vying for. If that makes any sense.)**

**As always, I appreciate your feedback.**

_**Author's Note:**__** I'm glad you guys didn't hate the flashbacks. And forgive me with the different song bits. I don't usually enjoy them, either, but Glee is a predominantly song-based work. And my iTunes is constantly on when I'm writing, lol. Sometimes you can't help it.**_


	19. Chapter 19

_**(I originally posted the chapter earlier, stepped out for a cigarette, and sprinted back inside upon realizing that I'd committed a royal fuck up in the editing process. It's extremely embarrassing, and I pray that none of you read before I could mend the situation. Sorry about that.)**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

* * *

The April morning is as cool as any other. I step outside, if only for a bit of fresh air. My eyes instinctively scan the area for any oddities. Surely enough, a figure paces back and forth in front of their vehicle. Back and forth. Then they open the door, get inside, and recline the seat.

Better judgment screams that I return inside. Pretend to not have witnessed what I just did. Brush the image off. But maternal instinct, or whatever my situation deems this new sense of urgency, pushes me forward. The same gut feeling from last night. It keeps doing so until I'm beside the car, pounding a balled fist to the front window.

CBG's eyes look on the verge of popping from their sockets. He looks terribly deprived of sleep. Manic. Perplexed. "Who are you?"

_Seriously?_ We spoke not even twelve hours ago. "Susan's daughter. We talked last night."

His expression brightens at her name. "Susan? Susan Pierce? Is she back?" He places a finger on the handle, but I lean my body weight against the door. Feet digging into the earth behind me. Legs locked into position. CBG looks through the window with total utter confusion.

"I need you to listen to me," I command, voice steady but hardened. "Susan isn't here anymore. She. Will. Not. Be. Back. And you need to get out of here before someone calls the police." _Before I call the police_ would be ideal. But with the past few weeks, Eddie and I have been trying to stay low. Getting the authorities involved again would prove to be more trouble than it's worth.

CBG begins shaking his head, eyes watered and lip quivering. Just as last night, both palms press into his face. A grown man crumbles in front of me. Sobbing. "You have to help," he pleads. "Something bad's going to happen to me. I just know it. Isn't there something we can work out?"

I should probably lend a hand. An ear, maybe. Ask what terrible event could possibly occur. Offer what little I can. But if recent events serve as any indication, only trouble can come of helping out. Releasing pressure on the door, I purse my lips and shake my head, as I imagine Santana would do. "I'm afraid that there's nothing I can do."

* * *

This morning follows me well into school. CBG's general brokenness. His desperation. Terror written all over his face. In fact, at some point during English class, I rename him Crazy Bald Guy. Purely from the delusional look in his eye.

By the time glee practice rolls around, mental strain has left me very unaware of my surroundings. So when Santana hesitantly approaches me by our lockers, or calls my name three separate times, I'm oblivious. For the most part, at least. "Is everything okay?" she asks.

I snap to, nodding my head furiously. "Yeah, yeah. Of course."

"You just seem out of it," she says. "You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Probably not," I quickly joke. She laughs. Which is painful, for we both know that it's not really a joke. There is nothing funny or ironic about the statement. No punch line.

Santana shifts her books and coughs. "So, I was thinking about swinging through tomorrow," she says. "If it's still okay."

"You could stop by every day for the next twenty years and it'd be okay. Besides, it's still your place," I say.

"Right," she breathes, turning on a heel. "Then I'll see you tomorrow."

I nod dumbly before entering the choir room. Different conversations are being held all over. Kurt and Rory are energetically discussing something. Quinn wallows in her perpetual state of anger. When I take a seat on the back row, Rachel's eyes suspiciously trail me as she turns. "You're…glowing," she points out.

Kurt takes the announcement as invitation to squeeze in beside me. "Definitely far more upbeat that you have been."

I don't have the heart to tell them that my seemingly uplifted spirit is actually a whirlwind of confusing thoughts. This morning with CBG. Moments ago with Santana. Putting on a brave face with both. Mixtures of dread and elation. Nervousness and excitement. "I kind of have a date tomorrow," I eventually say. It's reason enough to act differently. By their standards. "Only my date doesn't know that our date is an actual date yet. If that makes sense."

Kurt and Rachel nod in understanding. Practice seems to end just as quickly as it begins. Probably because while my body effortlessly goes through the motions, my mind tackles larger issues. I can't shake CBG from my thoughts. But I eventually resolve to do so, and make tomorrow the very best that it can be. For after years of handing out second chances, Brittany Susan Pierce is finally getting hers. And she doesn't intend on fucking it up.

* * *

"I'm truly happy for the two of you," Carey beams when I stop by to pick Eddie up after school. She acted genuinely surprised a moment ago when I mentioned Santana agreeing to come by the apartment. Eddie appears from the back room that used to hold Bernadette's Christmas memorabilia. "Just remember to be gentle," Carey warns. "The game's changed now. It's not just Brittany and Santana anymore." She playfully tugs at Eddie's shoulders.

At the apartment, I become fully aware of how unkempt the place is. Being occupied by work and school have blinded me to the trash buildup. I begin tidying everything. Scrubbing anything with a flat surface. By the third round of cleaning, Eddie breathes loudly. "Could you, like, chill out for two minutes? You're giving me heartburn."

I eventually relax the process, gearing my efforts toward more subtle activities. Eddie retreats to bed sometime around midnight. I, on the other hand, am anything but tired. Well into the early hours of morning, miniscule things begin standing out. Meaningless discrepancies catch my attention. Rays of sunlight eventually poke through the window, signifying the time. The day. What happens on this day. I step outside and lean against the balcony. My face is on fire from keeping so busy.

In the distance, the car CBG panicked outside of remains. At first, it appears to be a mirage. A byproduct of sleep deprivation. Slowly, though, minutes pass and the vehicle doesn't fade away. As it should.

I flee back inside, falling onto the couch with a now-heavy heart. Was I not abrupt enough? Did my countless warnings not have their desired effect? Granted, I'm not as intimidating as Santana. But something's got to give.

Eddie soon emerges from the bedroom, yawning and sleepily rubbing at both eyes. Upon seeing me, he asks, "Have you slept at all?"

I shake my head, feeling the tiredness kick in all at once. Leaning back, I say, "I'm just going to rest my eyes for a few minutes. You know where the food is."

Eddie giggles as my eyes grow heavy. "Is there anything I can do for tonight? Anything I can clean?" There isn't time for a snide return on my part, for the rest that avoided me throughout the night comes quickly.

* * *

"Brittany," a voice coos. I don't move. Bodily awareness has yet to occur. "Brittany." A hand pushes gently at my shoulder. "Wake up, Brittany." My eyes flutter open, immediately shifting to the window that no longer filters sunlight. Instead, blackness creeps in.

_Oh shit._ My upper body snaps forward, nearly hitting Santana in the process. "She's alive," Eddie says from his perch on the counter top.

Santana sits on the edge of the couch. "Hey," she whispers, smiling faintly. Even in a t-shirt and jeans, she's absolutely breathtaking.

"Hey," I whisper in return. We both sit, staring fondly at each other. Everything should be reeling through my mind. Waking up late. Not waiting by the door when she got here. But nothing does. It's just me and Santana.

"So… how about that cake?" Eddie awkwardly chimes in.

"Right," Santana mutters, blinking rapidly. "The cake."

* * *

"Dry," Santana says with a mouthful of food. "Feels like I'm chewing on glue."

Eddie seems displeased by the harsh critique. "It's been in the fridge for a week. What did you expect?"

"I don't know," Santana snaps, dropping the fork. "You tell me, Mr. Genius Baker Man."

Eddie folds both arms and cocks his head to the side. He picks up her plate, eyeing it skeptically. "If it's that bad, then why'd you eat the entire piece?"

"Had to make sure it sucked as much as I thought it would," Santana dismisses.

"Ceasefire, guys. Weapons down," I scold from beside the coffee pot. They've been at each other's throats for the past ten minutes. Drinking coffee to wake up has nothing on listening to these two. I hand Santana a cup of coffee as well. "Any preference of tonight's plans?"

Santana wanders from the table to in front of the stove, opening the bottom-most drawer. Apparently not finding anything, she pulls open the oven door. "I thought we could watch a movie, but…" she stands up, scratching her head confusedly.

"But what?" I tease, waving the DVD case about. "Do tell—how did The Lion King make its way _in there_?"

"You hardly ever walked past the damn thing, let alone look inside," Santana says, yanking the case from my hand.

I can't help but laugh at how obviously flustered she is. "Was that supposed to be my birthday present?"

"What? No," Santana mutters sheepishly. "It was just an emergency copy."

Eddie hops down from the counter, landing with a thud. "Ah, an emergency. Like what? An animated lion apocalypse?" His voice deepens. "Just like the zombies, only not as cute."

Santana shoots him the death glare to end all others, silencing the boy. "Well," I begin, prolonging Eddie's life for a moment or two. "As delightful as sitting around and watching my _favorite film_ sounds, I've already got something planned. An adventure, if you will."

Eddie doesn't hesitate in shrugging neutrally. "Sweet."

Santana cuts her eyes a final time before nodding in agreement. "Yeah. _Sweet._"

* * *

"Sorry, kids," I call out as Eddie trails Santana toward her vehicle. "We're walking tonight." They groan simultaneously as I begin in the other direction. "As we embark on our journey down memory lane, I must ask that you please keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times." I giggle. They both groan again.

We tear off into the night, cutting through neighborhoods toward a destination that only I know. The first stop—Puck's house. Santana gives me a confused twist of her features. "This is the site of our first kiss," I announce in tour guide fashion.

"No it wasn—oh," Santana immediately protests. "But that doesn't count. I was drunk." This is true. Freshman year, Puck had the house to himself and invited the football players and cheerleaders over for a party. A few wine coolers later, and Santana ambushed me in the upstairs bathroom.

"And so completely honest in that moment. I get chills thinking about it," I laugh, mock shivering. "If you'll direct your attention over _there_," I say, pointing to Puck's driveway, nearest the house's side. "That is where we shared our second kiss. And third. And fourth."

Eddie's face contorts at the information. Santana huffs in defeat and crosses her arms. I detour our trio across a main road and in between various homes. Fifteen minutes later and we come to the very lake Santana and I used to meet at. "This is where I first told Santana that she'd be stuck with me for forever and ever," I explain.

A faint smile cracks on the Latina's face as she hunkers down, sitting in the same fashion that her middle school-self used to. Knees tucked into her chest. Arms wrapped around them. I sit and Eddie joins. Then the three of us are just _here_, silently gazing at the water. It's the kind of moment I would normally revel in. The brief seconds where thinking isn't necessary. But a restless eleven-year-old makes it difficult to enjoy bliss. Eddie yawns and whines, "This isn't very adventurous."

"Then it's a good thing that we have one more stop to make," I assure.

* * *

Coming up on Lima Elementary School, an obstacle that didn't exist ten years ago now stands tall. A massive wooden fence surrounds the playground. It's much different from the chain-link one they used to have. Everything's more concealed. Harder to get to. If something as major as this has occurred, I can only imagine what change the inside has undergone.

Still, though, tonight is about delving into the past. Making Santana remember. Giving Eddie insight. And my primary tool lies on the other side of this fence. So I shrug and look to Santana, who wears the face of a worried person. In fact, her eyes are trained on the metal "No Trespassing" sign that hangs against the wood. "Now this is more like it," Eddie whispers in awe, grinning from ear to ear.

"You're such a fucking criminal," Santana chides.

Eddie obviously ignores her remark, because he's now backing away from the blockade, confidence and determination seeping from his pores. "Maybe you're just old," he taunts before sprinting forward, bracing a foot against the side and propelling himself up. In one fell swoop, both hands are atop the fence, pulling the taut frame upward.

Santana groans loudly, and I know exactly what's about to come next. Her eyes signal to me as both hands come together, fingers interlocking. She quietly mumbles, "Cheerios, don't fail me now," as I place a foot inside the makeshift hold. In one fluid motion, I'm lifted up and eye level with Eddie, who now sits atop the fixture. Thankfully, a supportive beam is placed on the fence's inside, so I have something to use as leverage when pulling Santana up.

The playground looks the same as it used to, mind a few changes in the foliage. As in there are more trees and less dirt piles. Everything else remains untouched. It's absolutely beautiful. I mindlessly wander over to the equipment, stopping next to the slide. "And this—"

"Is where our lives were ruined at the paws of a feline," Santana finishes.

I'm about to defend Lord Tubbington when Eddie barrels onto the equipment, being far louder than he needs to. He stops, kneeling in front of a tunnel that connects one half of the set to the other. Then, for whatever reason, he lays down inside the tube. Santana and I both watch until Eddie's face pokes out of a small window. "Used to sleep in one of these things," he casually explains. "This one smells ten times better."

Over the next half hour, Santana and I sit on the swings, watching as Eddie plays on every square inch of the terrain. Like there isn't a single nook or cranny that he wants to miss. "We could sell him, you know," Santana says coolly, extending her legs and sending the individual swing backwards. "Put an ad online or in the newspaper. 'Annoying, House-broken Eleven-Year-Old Seeks Tolerable Home'. My Abuela tried it with me once."

I'm laughing at the seriousness in her voice, propelling myself higher and higher. Santana shrugs, shoulders questioning the nature of my amusement. "We," I answer. "You said 'we'." Tired from swinging, I slow to an eventual stop. Santana does the same. She beams joyously; something I haven't seen her do in a very long time. "We could always act like nothing ever happened, you know," I say. "Play pretend. Just like we used to on this very playground."

Santana's beam disappears. "Isn't that what we've been doing all along?" she asks, staring in the distance.

"You're right. I've been avoiding the tough questions." I rack my brain for anything to ask. "What was it like? Being in jail?"

Evidently this isn't the kind of discussion Santana was hinting toward, because she looks uncomfortable. Soon enough, though, she sighs and admits, "Quiet. Like being out here." There's obvious pain in the Latina's eyes, but for the first time in a while, it doesn't entirely subdue her. Instead, she turns to me, flashing a toothy grin. "What was it like sleeping with Karofsky?"

"Quiet," I chuckle. "On my part, at least." We both smile this time. And I grab Santana's arm, coaxing her from the swing set and towards the farthest-most part of the fenced area. While there are plenty of new trees, it's kind of hard to forget the one I'm heading toward. The one that looks far older and stands much taller than the rest.

Santana stands in awe, looking at the old inscription. It's a wonder how our initials are even still visible. But they are. Worn down. Aged. Much like the people they belong to. Even Lord Tubbington's is still here. We both stand, marveling at the snippet of our past. Wordlessly traveling back to a time when things were much simpler. Easier to cope with. Less complicated to move past. When the harsh realities of life felt light years away. Maybe my original plan is actually panning out. Making Santana remember who we used to be. Or, at least, long to be those people. Because she extends a hand toward the wood, gently rubbing over the indention. Wholeheartedly smiling to herself.

I'm not looking at the tree anymore, but at Santana. Watching her indulge in the moment. Watch as she allows herself the simplest of pleasures. That is, until Eddie nervously calls out, "Uhh, guys."

Our attention shifts as a single light pops on from inside the building. An arm grabs mine and tugs as a door swings open in the distance. Santana, Eddie, and I are hastily shuffling under the cover of darkness. From tree to tree until we reach a narrow opening in the fence. One that extends a couple of feet before closing off again. Just as Santana flattens against the wall and pulls my body flush with hers, a flashlight beam moves across the trees. It quickly darts from side to side, focusing in on an area and repeating the process.

We're forced to stifle our breathing until the light disappears. It eventually does, and Eddie pokes his head out, signaling the coast as clear. The three of us then climb the fence and take off into the night. When we reach the main road, nobody's breathing normally. Except for Santana, who lets out a genuine roar. The throw-your-head-back laugh of someone who hasn't done so in an excruciatingly long time.

* * *

En route back to the apartment, we individually bask in the joy of tonight. I, however, don't want it to end just yet. "We could still watch that movie," I suggest.

"I'm afraid it's a little late for that," Santana answers. "Parole officer gave me a curfew. But I can still walk you two home." I thought that was supposed to have been settled. But with what's happened, I can imagine why it hasn't.

We do stroll in the night, though. And peacefully so until Eddie becomes restless again, fidgeting loudly enough to provoke a reaction from either of us. I eventually ask what his issue is, at which point he asks to borrow my cellphone. "Because as much fun as I'm having watching you two make googly eyes while the other looks away, I'd rather play games."

Santana huffs in disapproval when I cave. "You can't let him walk all over you like that. Raising a kid—"

"Tonight's been great, Santana," I interject. "And I'd prefer we not spoil it with an argument." When she bites her lip, I habitually reach out for Santana's hand. Forgetting but quickly remembering, I yank it away, hoping she didn't notice. She did, it seems. For she grabs mine, intertwining our fingers and looking ahead the entire time.

When I ask about the birthday present I've yet to receive, Santana jokes, "Hold your horses, B." She pauses before finishing with, "It's an expression, by the way. Means we've got plenty of time for that later."

"Tonight _was_ great, wasn't it?" I randomly ask, suddenly realizing that Santana never really agreed.

"Heavenly," she breathes.

"Speaking of… Do you ever think about that stuff?" I ask. "Heaven, I mean. Because I do. I envision all of us being together again. Everyone. You, me, Eddie, Mom, Dad, Bernadette, and Carey. No fussing or fighting. Just living peacefully alongside each other."

Santana chuckles at my rambling. "Maybe. Heaven's a pretty far ways away," she says. "And I don't think the Big Man's too prone toward letting people like me in. But we've got time to figure that out, too."

We walk in silence for the rest of the way. I think about Bernadette, and if she believed that there was still time for her. Eddie falls behind a couple of times, but quickly catches up. All the while, Santana keeps her hand tightly enclosed around mine. As we near the main entrance of Lima Heights, Santana hesitates. It's the route that leads us past Carey's apartment. Where Bernadette used to live. I haven't given much thought to her still being pained by what now feels like a distant memory. Still hurt by Bernadette's spontaneous passing.

I lead us around the complex and to the back alley where Santana prefers to enter. "It's okay, Brittany," she says ashamedly, tugging against my hold.

"No, it's not," I urge. "Santana Lopez knows no fear. Especially none in regards to an old apartment." We finally reach the openly dark corridor. Light barely enters through cracks against the fire escape. "Now, Carey taught me that saying goodbye is a very therapeutic means of expelling poisonous things from our lives. So I want you to say goodbye to this place. Because fear is poisonous as hell."

"Brittany," Santana complains.

"Say it."

She huffs in annoyance, cramming both hands into her pockets. "Goodbye," she mumbles.

"Louder."

I get the same look Eddie received earlier in the apartment. It'd be scarier if I hadn't already seen it directed toward me a million times before. "Goodbye. Goodbye to this fucking alleyway. And goodbye to everything else that remains unimportant." Santana turns to me, silently asking if her performance was convincing enough.

I'm nodding and smiling like some proud soccer mom when a noise sounds from about ten feet away. The clinking of glass. Then the flicker of moonlight on an emerging figure. I feel Santana tense beside me. Fear resonates in my bones. Cripples me from budging.

A gut feeling said he'd be back. I just wish my gut wasn't always so right.

* * *

Instead of focusing on CBG, my eyes lock in on his hand. Or rather, what's in his hand. Much like the moon off of his bald head, light reflects from the glossy metal. The barrel, specifically. My hands instantly reach behind, feeling for Eddie. But he's fallen behind again. At least I think he has until a voice calls out, "Dude. Reception's crap back he…" but the voice trails.

CBG staggers forward. "I was waiting for someone to wander by, and as luck should have it, you two- three- cross my path," he sing-songs. Call me crazy, but luck isn't exactly the first word that comes to mind. The words are slurred, but I keep intently concentrated on his hand. So much so that I hardly recognize when Santana grabs my arm and tries to slowly ease me behind her. When I resist, keeping both hands firmly on Eddie, who stands at my back, Santana gives me a wild look of disbelief. Her eyes beg me to cooperate.

But I don't. Instead, I keep calm right next to my best friend. Our bodies forming a barrier between Eddie and CBG. "Susan said to come here. She said that she'd be _here_ when they came looking," he frantically persists.

I'm about to speak when Santana gives my arm a squeeze. "Well, she's not. And Susan's not our problem anymore." She tries squeezing us past, but the man slides over, stopping us from moving forward. Harsh fumes of alcohol penetrate my senses.

"It's somebody's problem," he argues. "Because we borrowed far more than I can pay off."

"Go knock off a liquor store or something," Santana says quickly, waving a dismissive hand. She's on edge. Fearfully hostile. How Lord Tubbington would act when he got scared. But instead of arching her spine as he would, Santana resorts to cutting banter.

CBG laughs, holding up a bottle with his left hand. "Tried that. It didn't work out so well." He takes a swig before pointing at Santana. "Susan mentioned you a few times. Said you had a temper. A quick mouth, too. But never said anything about you being stupid." How is it that he can remember Santana's characteristics, but completely forget my physical face?

I'm trying to figure that out when the weapon begins waving about. I watch CBG's eyes, both crazed with fear, move from face to face. When his attention shifts to me, Santana's hands shoot up. "Eyes over here, buddy." Her voice then softens. "Listen, if you're willing to talk it out, we can help you. Okay? But you need to put that down."

CBG begins shaking his head, tears streaming from his face. Never before have I seen someone so terrified. "You don't get it," he cries. "I don't have time to talk. You need to give me something."

"We've got nothing for you, guy," Santana returns. "You understand that, right?"

He's panicked again. Muttering under his breath, "Something, something, something." Scratching the barrel at his temple. Santana tries to speak again. To further rationalize with CBG. But he isn't hearing it. "No!" he suddenly shouts. "You're not _listening _to me! I've got to give them something. _Anything_."

"Who?" Santana asks. "Give who something?" But his gaze has already shifted downward. Our eyes follow to Eddie, who's poking out from behind me. Santana snatches him back behind her, shaking her head. "I'm afraid that I can't let you do that, either." She then extends both hands, taking a harmless step forward. I blindly follow suit, not wanting to leave her alone in the endeavor. If quick movements are going to be made, strength ultimately lies in numbers.

But the assailant catches on to our motion and steps backward, forcefully shifting the gun in our direction. My voice cracks, but I speak before Santana can protest. "I don't know what Susan's done," I say, feeling myself tremble under the pressure. "Isn't there something we can work out?"

We slyly move forward another step. He moves back three. Two bloodshot eyes narrow into me. They're cold. Wet streams flow from them. Both are crazed. Deranged, like yesterday morning. I'm looking into the face of a man who appears to have reached his breaking point. Who definitely isn't of his right mind. The face then begins turning from left to right. In an icy, sober tone, CBG mutters, "I'm afraid that there's nothing I can do."

And then a loud pop is the last thing I hear before my world goes black.

* * *

**JJLives: I hope this chapter answers your question. Per your recommendation, I checked out that Kelly Clarkson song. I definitely dig it, lol. Thanks for taking the time to share.**

**StephaniieC: It wasn't the gift, lol. And as always, thanks for your review.**

**4evamuzic: Cake= definitely stale. Haha. As always, I thank you.**

**Guest: Are you trying to get me to fall in love with you? Like, forreal. Because I will. Especially with a comment like that. I will, and won't think twice about it. Lol. (Needless to say, I most definitely thank you.)**

**luceroadorada: He is pretty cool, huh? No. No she did not.**

**ichigo111981: The past has this funny way of following us around, it seems.**

**LoneGambit: That's what I've been hoping to reach. I always value and appreciate your input.**

**insertnameherex: Aww. Well, it's not over. (Not just yet, at least.) I apologize for your tears, but thank you for telling me about them. Lol. Your words definitely warm my heart.**

**Channy2425: Shit, dude. You're telling me.**

**anongurl (Guest): And I'm seriously in love with your review. Thank you so very much for taking the time to read and catch up. It means the world.**

_**Author's Note:**__** Umm. Just don't hate me, you guys. **_


	20. Chapter 20

_**Author's Note: **__**This bastard is far longer than any other chapter. But it must be, for development's sake. A large thank you to all of the reviewers, for your input points out things I otherwise would not see. So, many thanks. **_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

* * *

A warm sea of red engulfs my lower body. Smells of rusted copper seep up and fill the surrounding air. I'm floating effortlessly. Bobbing up and down. Alone. In mere seconds, a scene arises in the distance. My muscles begin to ache from taking action, pumping toward the horizon as hard and quickly as my body will allow.

In nearing, it disappears. Now, I sit in a theater. Stadium seats extend far behind. I am alone here, too. The screen towers overhead, eventually clicking on. The sound of a creaky, turning reel fills the room. I wait. Three figures move into an alleyway. A fourth is concealed, hidden behind a dumpster.

The scene is familiar. One character, a brunette girl, yells into the air. The other, a blonde, looks contented. A small child follows their pair, staring blankly at something in his hands. I realize that this is a silent film. Noiseless and entirely dependent on the story being told. So I continue watching.

They are unknowing of what's about to happen. Though I, the only audience, am entirely aware. The hidden character surfaces from behind his cover, extending a gun. Two palms dart in front of the brunette's body. This isn't enough. I stare at the assailant. He looks familiar. And then it hits me. Dave Karofsky is the attacker.

He pulls the trigger, sending a quick burst of sparks into the night. Though there is no noise, the sound is vivid in my ears. Explicit. And then the screen cuts off.

It returns. _Stop. Rewind. Play._ The same scene begins again. The same cluelessness. The same quick flash of light. Only this time, Dave Karofsky is not hidden behind the dumpster. He does not emerge. He does not pull the trigger. Instead, a figure that resembles both Maribel and Dr. Lopez does.

End scene. _Stop. Rewind. Play. _Begin again. Same scene. Same cluelessness. Same burst into the night. Only this time, the morphed Mariblel and Dr. Lopez figure is not hidden behind the dumpster. It does not emerge. It does not pull the trigger. Instead, my mother does.

I become restless in watching. Pained at the sight. Riddled with anxiety at the constant stopping. Not seeing what comes next. The floor begins shaking and I clutch onto the seat. Helplessly, I stare at red liquid that begins rising. Slowly, steadily, it fills the room. The warm sensation covers my feet. Then legs. Then stomach. I now float to the room's ceiling, realizing how little space remains. When the aroma of rusted copper looms threateningly close to my nose, I squeeze my eyes shut, preparing to drown.

_Stop. Rewind. Play. _I am in an alley, standing next to a dumpster. Cool metal fills my hand. A yell erupts in the confined space. Faint chatter. I round a corner, staring into two panicked faces. A third looks up from his device and joins. I am now the leading star of this silent film. Caught up in the climax. The calm before the storm. The heroes' final hoorah before their ultimate collapse.

I am not the hero of this tale. There is none. No masked or caped vigilante swooping in to save the unknowing trio. There are only victims. And my role, of course. That of the adversary. A villain. Much like the other antagonists, I expect the same scene to unfold. Only this time, Dave Karofksy, the morphed Lopez figure, or my mother are not hidden behind the dumpster. They do not emerge. They do not pull the trigger.

Instead, I do.

* * *

Floating again. Into consciousness, it seems, for the steady drone of machinery replaces the once silent dream. _Beep. Beep. Beep. _My forehead freezes underneath a cold sweat. I am alone, visually greeted only by four white walls. There is a Plexiglas window in the left-most wall. The tick sounds from a large box in which tubes of all kinds are connected. To which I am connected.

I fidget slightly, eliciting a pinch in my right arm. Underneath a thin strip of bandaging, a single needle hangs freely. In a panic, I surge forward, immediately teetering from dizziness. The needle tugs, and I rip it from my arm, disconnecting all other fixtures. Two tubes from my nostrils. Wooziness and a migraine aren't enough to stifle the sole mission. To stifle the one thought that blares in my head. _Where is Santana?_

The hallway is filled with random people. Some in hospital scrubs. Others in plain clothes. Each moving from room to room. I barrel forward in my thin, paper-like cover, searching for a recognizable face. Confused eyes cut as I move. Around the corner, Dr. Lopez, Maribel, Carey, and Eddie are huddled together. Their eyes widen as I near.

"Santana," I cry out. "Where is she?!"

A larger man in scrubs, an orderly, steps in front. With what energy still possesses my body, I struggle as he wraps me in a forceful hug. Crushing the air out of my lungs. We move backwards now. I leverage the use of my legs, tangling them with his, if only to deter the process for moments longer.

Yards away, Eddie appears frantic. But he doesn't budge. "Eddie! Where did Santana go?!" I yell out. Then the pinching feeling returns and I'm not awake to hear his answer.

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._ I struggle to sit up when it becomes obvious that moving is not an option. A strap is draped across my chest. Harnesses around my ankles. The needle hangs freely again. Accompanying a drip of clear fluid, terror courses through my veins. _Where is she? Why won't they let me see her?_

Eddie is in a chair across the room, sleeping uncomfortably. He's balled up, leaned back, hand crumpled against his jaw. Whatever they used to knock me out earlier is highly effective, for I can't so much as muster anything above a whisper. "Eddie," I crack out, hoping he'll hear.

His eyes immediately pop open, red and puffy from an apparent lack of rest. I wait for some sort of warm greeting when he jumps from the chair and sprints into the hallway, returning with a man in a white coat. "Glad to see you're awake," he says. "Again."

I grunt, not in the mood for friendly banter. "Where is she?" Quite frankly, it's the only topic I want addressed in the next thirty seconds.

"You're awfully lucky, Brittany. Thankfully, today's youth are far more technologically advanced than my generation," the doctor says, chuckling to himself. "I'm afraid that if it weren't the case, we wouldn't be speaking this soon. Or at all, in fact."

The only lucky thing about this situation falls in the doctor's favor. It's sheer luck on his part that my feet are harnessed and upper body is strapped down. _Because the next person that inappropriately uses the term "lucky" is having their throat ripped out. _"Where is she?" I repeat.

Eddie stands tensely quiet in the corner. Dr. Talks Too Much is undeterred, though. "The police are waiting outside. They'll need to speak with you soon. Only when you're feeling up to it, of course." A swell of anger forces my hand to the torso strap. Tugging. Yanking. Trying to pull it free. Just enough to where I can lean up and grab hold of the doctor. He must sense my motives, for he tucks a folder underneath his arm, sighs heavily, and mutters, "And it seems that the moment is now."

Two uniformed officers step inside the room. "Where is Santana?" I ask for the millionth time this morning.

They cough and look to Dr. Talks Too Much, who then looks to me and says, "They just want to ask you some questions regarding last night." My mouth begins to form a final protest when he places a hand up. "Surgery, Brittany. I'm afraid that your friend wasn't as lucky."

* * *

Eddie ducks out of the room quickly. Which, I assume, is because of the authorities. But when he enters the hallway and a metal tray is accidentally knocked over, sending a loud crash throughout the area, the eleven-year-old goes into a full freak out. His head whips around and legs practically give out.

I'm trying to sort through the issue when one of the officers clears his throat. "Ms. Pierce," he says, trying to catch my attention. "I'm Officer Wallace and this is Officer Malone. Firstly, let me just say how terribly sorry we are for your accident." _My _accident. I wasn't the only one affected, but it seems that they're going to treat it like so. "We'll make this quick and be on our way." He looks to a pad. "Did you know Thomas Hobbs before last night? Ever see him? Have any contact?"

I assume Thomas Hobbs to be CBG. It's definitely a creepy name. Crazy, too. "When my mother moved, he came around to help," I mutter, sorting through a blistering headache for further details. "And then he stopped by the apartment a couple of times looking for Susan. I said that she had been arrested, but he wouldn't accept it as fact."

Both of the officers nod in understanding, though the one who introduced them looks at me questionably. As if I'm lying. As if a girl strapped to a hospital bed is capable of doing so. Or has any reason to, for that matter.

"If Mr. Hobbs was giving you problems, then why didn't you call the police?" he asks. It's less of a question and more of an accusation.

If waking up in the hospital isn't a problem enough, now I have to form some kind of acceptable response. "_You see, Mr. Officer. My mother showed up with a homeless kid and I didn't have the heart to make it homeless again. So we've been avoiding all confrontation with you bastards."_ just doesn't seem like that kind. So I shrug from underneath the strap and say, "It didn't seem like the situation had reached that point."

The officer hums, scribbling in and closing his notepad. "Well, we'll be sure to address that point when Mr. Hobbs recovers and is arraigned."

_Recovers?_ From what? My mind is reeling as they turn to leave. "Wait!" I call out. "What do you mean by 'when he recovers'? He's _here_?" Maybe it's why Eddie seems so frazzled. So distraught. So strung out.

The looks on their faces suggest that there's an important bit of information that's avoided me. "Shortly after shooting your friend, Mr. Hobbs targeted similar… _measures_ toward himself," the officer explains with pain in his voice. "We were two streets over when the little guy called. Poor kid had a hand pressed on your friend's stomach the entire time, but it was pretty obvious what Mr. Hobbs had done." He pauses. "Tried doing."

My migraine increases with each detail that unfolds. The realization behind each. I can only think of Eddie. The pressure he was under. Witnessing what he did. My heart physically begins to hurt, and it's everything I can do to keep from breaking down. Both men take this as their cue, and I'm really struggling before calling Eddie back into the room.

He's hesitant when I pat on the bed, inviting him to sit beside me. Forcing back tears. "I'm sorry," is all I mutter, wrapping my arms around him. Over and over again. Eddie tenses himself but remains silent. He merely squeezes onto what part of my body isn't tethered down. "It's okay to be sad," I whisper just as I did to Santana at Bernadette's funeral. "It's okay to cry."

Gradually, over the next ten minutes, my gown becomes soaked with tears. And this time, it's Eddie who dozes off to sleep.

* * *

By nightfall, news of Santana's return from surgery trickles into my room. A nurse checks on the machinery and with some convincing, removes the straps for me. Evidently, I'm no longer a threat. Bitchy, but no longer violent.

Eddie is still fast asleep on my stomach, so when the doctor reenters for another checkup, he's gentle in closing the door. An older man, he struggles in sitting down nearest the bed. Then, in a whisper, he asks, "Are you ready to talk now?" I simply nod, trying to be compliant. Hoping that agreeing to their wishes gets me closer to seeing Santana. The man flips through a chart, examining the paper before setting it down. "You took a nasty fall and managed to nick the back of your head. I'm not sure if you've noticed."

I reach a hand behind, feeling matted clumps just above my lower hairline. A slight turn reveals small splotches of red across the pillow. "Then why the need for theatrics earlier?" I whisper. "The 'you're lucky' bullshit?"

Eddie now rustles, sitting up slowly. He rubs at his eyes, just as he does every morning after waking. We exchange a brief smile. Actually, I smile. Eddie doesn't.

The doctor glances at his chart again before speaking. "Because, Ms. Pierce. That _bullshit_ wasn't a fainting from hyperventilation, which is common. Easily treated. In fact, you took the exact opposite approach." He flips and checks a final time. "Irregular heartbeat. Decreased oxygen intake. Hmm. You practically quit breathing. I'd venture to guess that the abnormalities—added to a stressful situation—caused a minor heart attack. Which, if left unattended, is just as serious as a major one."

An excruciating pang hits my chest, forcing a hand to it. Eddie's eyes widen, and I'm afraid that he might collapse. Have a heart attack of his own. So I flash another smile. A forced affirmation of how very alive I am. Doctor Talks Too Much elaborates in a comforting tone, "Judging by your current vitals, however, I'd say that you're going to be okay. Let's just cross our fingers that you don't get too overwhelmed by anything in the near future." He then stands, smiles, shakes both of our hands, and exits.

I give Eddie a playful nudge. A nurse comes in within the next half hour, tending to minor nurse things. She explains that hospital discharges are only allowed in the mornings. But with some pleading on both mine and Eddie's parts, and a strict promise to stay within hospital limits for the night, I'm allowed to get the paperwork taken care of.

Getting dressed is a difficult task when you've had a heart attack. Minor or major. Eddie waits patiently, though. When we're ready to say goodbye to my room and venture down toward Santana's, I catch his arm. Peer into his barren eyes. "All right, soldier. Dry those tears. Santana wouldn't want to see either of us crying." Only now does he grin.

A clerk tries giving us flack for visiting Santana's room after hours, but Dr. Lopez immediately steps in to handle the situation. "They're with us," he says firmly. Commanding. The poor clerk doesn't so much as bat an eye at us again.

The four of us gather around Santana's bed. Around Santana's frigid body. She looks as cold and lifeless as I remember Bernadette looking. I sit closest, squeezing her hand. Silently praying that she'll squeeze back. Internally vowing to never again let go.

No words are exchanged between the four. No one knows how to approach the conversation. Which I'm content with, purely because there isn't much I feel like saying, either.

Somewhere around two o'clock in the morning, Maribel convinces Dr. Lopez that they need to leave. He's apprehensive, but her expression of grief is enough to send him on his way. Per their direction, Eddie and I are permitted to stay in the room overnight. Which allots me ample opportunity to reevaluate my opinion of the Lopezs. It may have taken a gun shot and a heap of drama, but there's a significant change about them. At least within the past few hours. The way they conduct themselves in the hospital is a polar opposite to the outside world. Leave it to the place where many come to die to humble a person.

I curl up on the bed next to Santana. Eddie takes the cot Dr. Lopez had the clerk wheel in before they left. Sleep proves to be nothing more than a figment of my imagination, but I manage a nap. When morning rolls around and the Lopezs return, Maribel gently shakes me awake. She apparently isn't getting much rest, either.

"Come on. You need to be getting on your way to school," she says.

Not worried about waking my unconscious bed partner, I shake my head furiously. "I'm not walking out of here until Santana can, too."

"Santana would want you to tend to your studies," Dr. Lopez chimes in earnestly. His voice reeking of adamancy. "Your friend has come to pick you up. She's in the lobby."

I reluctantly follow their advice, not wanting to cause a stir amongst the group. Especially since we'll be spending far more time together in the near future. Surprisingly enough, Eddie opts to stay at the hospital.

"Staying with Carey is great and all, but I want to be here for you. For Santana. When she wakes up," he says. Poor kid looks entirely worn out, so I agree, mentally noting to have Carey visit and keep an eye on him after she drops me off.

I wrap him in a tight hug, whispering into his ear, "If anything happens, you find a phone and call me." He nods. It's a damn good thing that I took on Santana's practice and made him memorize the number.

After a final squeeze of Santana's hand, I venture into the hallway, heading towards Carey. More surprising than Eddie's decision to stay is who waits in the lobby. It's not Carey. It's Quinn.

* * *

"Maribel and my mother still keep in touch," Quinn says as we turn into the McKinley parking lot. I grunt in response. As I have with every other attempt at small talk Quinn's made. In fact, the only words I've muttered were on the phone with Carey. She's picking Eddie up later this afternoon.

I suspect that the Lopezs won't want word of this getting around, so I keep relatively quiet throughout the day. Remaining silent is still no major undertaking, even if it aides their pride. Heaven forbid that news of Santana's injury spread around the country club. Or company dinners. Or whatever the fuck Santana's parents do in their spare time.

Glee club used to be a place of solace. A time to get away from the struggles of everyday life. Now, though, I despise it more than anything. Listening as my fellow members drone on and on about their problems. Santana no longer holds a presence in the room, and I'm thankful for it. Topics like prom, breakups, or the Nationals competition are all miniscule in comparison to my best friend. Truthfully, I'd feel twice as bitter if I could actually still feel her sitting in the chair next to me.

My trance is broken by the feeling of all eyes on me. Which is true. Everyone is turned around, staring at the back row. Waiting for something. Rachel finally asks, "And why are _you_ so out of it?"

It's the same way she looked at me sophomore year, when I took all of my antibiotics at once and couldn't move from the choir room. I try searching for an appropriate response. For problems comparable to those of my classmates'. _For starters, my mother's gone. Her crazy friend didn't hesitate to come back, though, and cause a complete shit storm. There's an eleven-year-old whose eyes keep begging for answers. Who expects me to make sense of why bad things happen to good people, and I have no fucking clue as to what the answer is, let alone how to explain it. Oh, and to top it all off, the love of my life was gunned down and now she's lying unresponsive in a hospital bed._

"I haven't been sleeping well," I finally say, ignoring all internal dialogue.

Evidently, this isn't good enough reason for the starlet. "If we're going to be fully prepared for prom and _Nationals_, then one hundred percent effort must be given," she announces. "As a whole, we must be lively in every waking minute."

Managing a retort is difficult when you so painfully want to punch someone in their massive nose. I finally understand Santana's hardships in dealing with the girl. Luckily, Quinn leans over, staring directly into Rachel's eyes, and snaps, "Not now, Berry."

The rest of practice ensues without another word from her. Or anyone, for that matter. We kind of zombie our way through the performance. Run through the motions. I struggle with the slightest movements. At rehearsal's end, Quinn offers me a ride back to Lima Memorial. Considering the ever-present remnants of my injury, I don't protest. And when we're almost free of the building, Puck sneaks up behind us. "Pre-prom festivities at Chateau Puckerman weekend after next," he sing-songs. "You girls down?"

Oddly enough, the first things that come to my mind have nothing to do with his invitation. Santana needs me by her side. She'd do the same for me. And Carey, she's been so helpful with Eddie. I couldn't imagine asking more of her. "Some of us have more important things going on," I spit.

"You used to love parties," Quinn says when we're finally settled in the car.

"I used to love a lot of things," I say too quickly. "I used to do and be a lot of things, too."

Cranking the engine and pulling away, Quinn and me ride in yet another grueling twenty minutes of silence. That is, until we pull into the hospital parking lot and she clicks the doors locked. She then sighs. Looks on the verge of tears. "We used to be best friends, the three of us," she breathes. "The Unholy Trinity. Talked about any and everything. Now, while we're not as close as we used to be, I want you to talk to me. Right now. Right here."

Her abruptness is totally out of character. And suddenly, I can't tell if the aching in my chest is from the injury or being consistently forced to swallow my grief. Whatever the case may be—it hurts like hell. The cotton mouth. The knot buried deep in my throat. All of it threatens to break free this very instant. Maybe it's the self-pity, or anguish for Eddie, or sorrow for Santana. Whatever the case may be, I crumble.

Tears stream down my face as I explain. From the start and leading up until now. Every ounce of guilt, shame, and heartache that I was unaware of carrying. It's a solid eight minute confession. And when I finally come to a stop, the weight that once threatened to crush me is lighter. More manageable, if only for a moment.

Quinn rests her forehead on the steering wheel, a look of astonishment spread across her face. "Shit" is her only reply.

"I've said it a million times, and I'll say it a million more," I continue ranting. "Everyone thinks she's this bad person, but she's not."

Quinn waves a hand, silencing any further rambling. I get out, lingering by the door for a few seconds, inviting her inside. She merely cranks the engine again. "We've all got our regrets, Brittany. I'm not ready to come to terms with mine just yet. Not all of us can be as strong as you and Santana clearly are." And with that, she pulls away.

* * *

It's the same scene for the next week. Wake up, school, ride with Quinn to the hospital, wait beside Santana, repeat. Every night I fall asleep by her side. And every morning, I pray that she'll wake up alongside me.

Eddie stays at Carey's during the night. No child should have to sleep in an uncomfortable hospital room. Especially not where loud noises continuously threaten to send him into a panic. And quite frankly, I'm not prepared to give up my side of the too-small bed.

Finally, by week's end, an update comes to me during glee rehearsals. I tune Mr. Schuester out and check my cellphone, only to find eighteen missed calls from Carey.

Thankfully, Puck caught Quinn's attention this morning, and she mindlessly left her keys in the front seat. I grabbed them with every intention of returning the set later this afternoon. Now, in a mad dash, I dart from the choir room and to the student parking lot, tearing away in Quinn's car toward Lima Memorial Hospital.

Nine minutes must be record time. I'm not necessarily dwelling on that fact, however, as I sprint up a flight of stairs and down various hallways. The effort absolutely kills my chest, but it doesn't matter. Not when Santana could be responding. Or the opposite. Something much worse. Carey and Eddie stand outside of Santana's room, sending a rush of fear into my stomach. "It's okay. It's okay," Carey coos when I breathlessly reach them. "Santana woke up. And she spoke about—what?– six words."

"And?! What did she say?" I say.

Per Carey's explanation, Eddie was sitting on Santana's bed when it happened. He was playing Gin Rummy with her, tending to both hands. Then, in a split second, Santana began stirring. Her eyes fluttered open and she asked, "Am I winning?" Eddie freaked out and called for Maribel and Dr. Lopez. When they entered, Santana smiled, looked Maribel dead in the face, and said, "I forgive you." She then proceeded to fall back asleep as if nothing had happened.

I look to Eddie. "Are you sure? Are you positive that Santana actually spoke?" After my first night here, I've become fully aware of the realism dreams can possess. The last thing I need is a false claim or sliver of hope based off of something that didn't truly occur. But Eddie's confident nod is the only affirmation I need to know that Santana is still Santana, and she's finally coming back.

* * *

_Stop. Fast forward. Play. _I am as giddy as ever. Not worrying about what Santana said or who it was to, but that she was fully conscious. Even if it was for less than a minute. Words trump a hand squeeze any day.

Carey and Eddie bring coffee for everyone from the cafeteria. A blessing, for I intend on staying alert until Santana reawakens with more hope to deliver. Her parents decide to continue in leaving, mainly because Maribel is sobbing like a baby. Happy tears, I hope.

When they're finally around the corner and out of earshot, Carey leans in and mutters, "Kind of weird, her forgiving them. Santana never struck me as the heartfelt, sappy type."

"'I forgive you'. What's heartfelt or sappy about that?" I joke.

"Nothing. But let the record show that I _was_ winning," Eddie interrupts, sipping from a cup of coffee. I quickly snatch it away. Kids don't need coffee. Especially Sir Fidgets-A-Lot. Dreading the very reason behind his edginess, and these next few minutes, I lead him to a setup of chairs just outside another room.

He still seems pretty haunted by what happened. Still jumping at loud, spontaneous noises. Doors slamming shut. Yelling from unruly patients. Those kinds of things. "Do you want to talk about, you know… it?" I ask. _How noble of me_, I think. _Expecting Eddie to discuss a topic that not even I have the courage to say aloud._

"Not really," he quickly says.

"We'll have to, eventually," I return.

Eddie then snatches my cup away and takes a sip. "Later. Please." I nod in understanding, about to thank him when the boy leaves our conversation entirely. He takes off through the stairwell door, heading down.

I wish I could fathom how traumatized he must be. Just to have a starting point, so he won't storm off the next time I bring it up. But no matter how hard I try to imagine witnessing a person be gunned down, another seize up, and the last attempt to end their own life is beyond my reach. On top of it all, single-handedly saving all three. I simply cannot. And judging by Eddie's response, there is no hero of this tale, either. Only victims.

I sigh audibly in returning to Carey's side near Santana's room window. "You know, it might have just been the drugs talking, but Santana seemed very at peace earlier," she says.

"As at peace as a half-dead person can be, I'm sure," I breathe.

Carey laughs to herself. "Only fifteen, maybe twenty, percent dead now."

"There shouldn't be a percentage to begin with. It's _his _fault that we're even measuring Santana's health," I say quickly, feeling my voice catch. The tight knot from Quinn's car creeps back into my throat. "It's my fault," I sheepishly whisper. "All my fault."

Carey groans and turns toward me, leaning against the window panel. She fiddles with her hands before speaking. "In your years of knowing Santana, how many times has she openly apologized?"

It's difficult to tally on the spot. Even if I had ample time to devote toward chalking up the number of times Santana has said she's sorry for anything, it would be strenuous. The handful of apologies in her letter are the only I currently recall. "Not many," I admit.

"You'd say it's a pretty rare occurrence?" Carey asks. I nod. An apology from Santana is like a solar eclipse—it happens once in a blue moon and is always eventful. "Well, honey. I'm here to tell you that the _only_ thing harder than saying you're sorry is forgiving someone who never did it to begin with. Who probably never will. Whether they get the chance to or not."

I immediately think of Santana's parents. The people her intoxicated mind chose to excuse. "Between the two of us, Santana usually deals with the hard stuff. And besides, A Lopez is never wrong," I halfheartedly joke.

"And to think, Eddie opted for the Pierce name," she chuckles in return. Then another loud breath. Pain instantly fills Carey's eyes as she looks back into the room. The same obvious hurt that plagued her with Bernadette. "You're getting an opportunity many don't. And I'm willing to bet that when Santana wakes up again, she'll be eager to offer you the same forgiveness as the others. But, judging from these past five minutes, it seems that you've got some catching up to do, Brittany Pierce. Forgiving of your own to do first."

* * *

Tonight, as I curl up next to Santana, Carey's words consistently cycle through my mind. Anger fills my chest with each repetition. How much easier it's said than done, forgiving another person. At some point, though, early in the morning, I surrender to her advice. To resisting it, at least. Recognizing the regrets she must harbor over Bernadette, even if she gave the woman her time, efforts, and large portion of her youth. Her world, basically. It's not the kind of emotional indebting that I want toward anyone. Not Thomas Hobbs. Not Santana. Not myself.

It terrifies me to no end, though. The idea of Santana finally forgiving me. Which makes no sense, for it's the one thing I've been fighting for these past few weeks. It's the very reason we went out that fateful Saturday night. Even more so, I'll be damned if my cowardice joins the list of things that have pushed Santana and me apart.

So, by mid-afternoon the next day, I decide to climb from the hospital bed. Santana hasn't woken up all day, but her grip on my hand has definitely tightened. I take it as a hopeful sign. A way of communication, even when full consciousness betrays her.

Apprehensively prying my hand away and wandering into the hallway, I shoot Carey a confident glance before searching for Thomas Hobbs's room. CBG. He's located around two corners and down another long corridor. I check the visitor's sign-in sheet, only to see that I'll be his first.

For three solid hours, I sit and stare at the decrepit man that lies in bed. A vegetable. His aura is very similar to Santana's. Cold. Alive, but not really. A large bandage covers the right side of his head, just above the ear. It's a wonder CBG survived.

I should feel the same resentment as before. Pure hatred towards this Hobbs character. The very man that tried to take Santana from me. The same man that tried to escape future consequences in front of Eddie. _Right in front of an eleven-year-old. My eleven-year-old. _I should feel bitterness. Malice. Hold a grudge of some sort. Nothing but pity accompanies his image, though. And I hate myself for it.

But I can't shake the idea that he didn't have someone to turn to. A Santana in his life. Instead, he was merely a victim. Drawn into the veiled idea of compassion that my mother provided. And much like myself, he mentally and emotionally paid for that desperation. Long before the physical toll.

Sometimes I wonder about people's changes of heart. If committing to a better future somehow rights the wrongs of their pasts. Like when Lord Tubbington finally decided to quit smoking. He stuck to the program and did so well, but lung cancer killed him anyway. It didn't matter that he vowed to never smoke again. The damage was done.

Staring at CBG, or Thomas Hobbs, I wonder the same. If he woke up right now, would Santana, I, or Eddie be able to forgive him? Or has the damage already been done?

Visiting hours are drawing to a close, and I'm suddenly very eager to leave and see Santana. To hear her speak. A hunch tells me that tonight will be the night. The night I experience the same feeling as every night when Lord Tubbington and I watched movies to keep his mind off of smoking. But as Carey said, I must reach a certain peace before hoping to bask in Santana's. And maybe, just maybe, pardoning CBG's actions will allow me to finally exercise the same mercy toward myself.

"Thomas," I say, suddenly feeling a tide of nervousness wash over me. "I'm sure you know who I'm here to talk about." Another pause. I take a deep breath and decide to just go for it. Regardless of whatever tears the confession will bring. "She's a fighter, that girl. In more ways than one. And you'd better hope you die first, because while I can try to see things from your perspective, Santana has this tendency to go all Lima Heights on people. No standing in another's shoes. No questions asked beforehand. At this point, I can't say that I'd stop her."

A commotion breaks out in the hallway. Nurses rush from various rooms and dart past. They'll soon be in here for checkups, so hurry the speech along. "I know what it feels like, wanting to be loved by someone who isn't capable of giving it. Doing whatever it takes to have just one other person care about you. So—and I'm sorry that it's taken this long for it to happen—but I'm going to give you that. Just so you know the feeling. And I hope that you heal and move far, far away from this place." I take a final pause, inhaling, and finishing in one breath. "So I'm going to try really hard and forgive you for shooting my best friend. I can't make any promises, but I'm going to try."

I rush from the room shortly thereafter, not taking the chance of him magically waking up and responding. But Carey was right. It feels different. Not completely better, but different.

As I round the corner toward Santana's room, feeling more ready to have a conversation with my best friend than ever, a large crowd is gathered down the hallway. And when I near, Eddie and Carey are standing at the back of the pack. I realize how terribly close they are to Santana's window, and instinctively barrel through the mass. Shoving people aside to get toward the front. The large male orderly stops me as he did the other day.

Not prepared to fight, I hurry back to Carey and Eddie. Maribel and Dr. Lopez now stand alongside them. "What's going on?" I ask exasperatedly. They remain expressionless. Silent. Paying no attention to me. I look to Dr. Lopez. "What's happening?!" It sends a shock of anxiety through me, and so I yell, "Somebody just answer me!"

A gurney appears, splitting the crowd as it wheels through. Somebody is violently convulsing atop the surface. I look back to Carey and Eddie a final time. Then to Santana's parents. Staring at four blank faces, watching the gurney speed farther away, only now do I realize the painful truth.

Their silence _is_ my answer.

* * *

**(For the sake of replying to Guests/Anons, all replies are in order of their submission. Beginning with the earliest.)**

** xoxo (Guest): Experience has this funny way of aging people, lol. I agree, though. Very much like the movie 'Thirteen'. Fucking great thing that the bastard is so self-sufficient, or I'd have to kill him off. Haha. As far as endings go, my only advice is to try and refrain from predicting. (I do it, too.) As always, I love your review, and thank you for taking the time to read/voice your opinion.**

**luceroadorada: Thank you, lol. I'm no sap, so writing dates like that is always difficult. But Guuuurl, thank you for taking the time to read and review.**

**Adrimarie97: Is now okay? (These fuckers take time to write. Lol.)**

**JJLives: Perfection is overrated, I'm afraid. For the love of God, do not give up barbecue for this piece. It isn't worth it. Haha. (P.S. Thanks for taking the time to read again. I nearly pissed myself at the realization of my error.) As always, I appreciate your review. **

**anon (Guest): Here you go, my friend.**

**anongurl (Guest): Well, I certainly appreciate your compliment. It truly means the world. What kind of person if I gave away how much longer this would continue? Isn't that part of the suspense? Lol. (I don't want it to end, either. But it must.)**

**Cassondra (Guest): Your words make me cry. And as far as the number of followers/review- it doesn't matter. I'm grateful for the ones that this piece has. And I certainly appreciate you all taking the time to read and make your voices heard. (I do have a Tumblr, but nothing fic related goes on it. I'm not cool/proactive enough for that. lol.)**

**courtneynr15: I promise you, I will never just keep you hanging. Thank you.**

**insertnameherex: Duuuude. No predictions, please. They fuck up my train of thought, lol. But thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. (And I'm certainly flattered to be in the top two.)**


	21. Chapter 21

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

* * *

Whether you believe in hell or not, there is no denying how quickly it breaks loose. How Santana can be talking and forgiving her parents and asking about card games one minute; then seizing up the next.

I am eight-years-old again, watching Dad be whisked away as the cancer became too much. Slowly lifting his spirit from this wretched world. Everything moves in slow motion. The nurses, as they wheel Santana to a station down the hall. Santana, whose once writhing body falls still in an instant. Doctors, who place two iron-looking blocks to my best friend's chest, shocking her body into the air. I am the lead in yet another silent film. Consumed by another nightmare. Only this time, there is no waking up.

I stand paralyzed in the hallway as people hurriedly move past. Like ants. Very quiet ants. Ants that look satisfied with their station treatment and push Santana through two swinging doors. Two hands grab hold of my arm. They coax me from the hallway's center and to a side, forcing me into a chair. Eddie's eyes remain wide-set as they shift up and down my face. Up until now, I've been entirely unaware of my heart rate. How rapidly it moves. How my lungs scream for air.

Eddie must realize this, for he signals to Carey who disappears in a flash. "Brittany," he says, voice steady and hands still gripping my upper arm. "Brittany, I need you to look at me." I eventually do, though his voice is tiny against the loudness that overwhelms me. "I want you to breathe with me, okay? In and out. In and out." We both sit in the chairs, forcing ourselves to inhale and exhale in tandem. Eddie makes a point to count each aloud. He eventually asks me to do the same. By number twenty, when my breathing is finally under some sort of control, Carey returns with a cup of ice cubes. I'm forced to suck on one.

Hours pass in this hallway. I refuse to budge, even as Maribel and Dr. Lopez take refuge in Santana's former room. Eddie waits by my side, forcing cube after cube into my mouth. When someone in a white coat finally enters the room, I jump up and follow suit, eager to hear a shred of news. That what I witnessed earlier wasn't that uncommon. But as soon as the word "critical" enters the air, my eagerness dissipates. Evidently, Santana died for the better part of thirty seconds.

"We originally believed, considering the injury's location, that prying around and trying to extract the bullet would do more harm than good," the doctor explains. "However, it is currently causing a great deal of damage to her liver."

Dr. Lopez crosses his arms, sighing loudly. "You're going to operate again, I assume."

The nameless doctor nods. "Granted, we only need part of a liver. Left lobe, more than likely. The rest will regenerate on its own. But adult to adult donations are still a very rare practice. We'd have to find an appropriate match," she continues, face contorting with each word. "And I'm afraid that in the amount of time it would take for a match to appear, Santana's body might develop some resistance."

Santana's parents look disgruntled by the information. Especially Dr. Lopez, who undoubtedly understands what's to come. But I've seen these things on television before. Someone in a close relationship can donate. Parents, siblings. Former best friend turned enemy turned friend again. In a split second, and without so much as a second thought, I blurt out, "I'll do it. She can have part of mine."

* * *

"No. No, she can't," the doctor immediately says. She then looks back to Dr. Lopez and Maribel, giving them a comforting smile. "We're on a strict timeline. If either of you would like to volunteer yourselves, I can send a nurse in here to immediately collect you for testing." Both parents apprehensively nod.

_Did she not hear me?_ _I said I would do it._ Especially as the person that got her into this entire mess; the least I can do is my part to get her out of it. When the doctor exits and begins toward another room, I'm in hot pursuit. She stops nearest Dr. Talks Too Much, exchanging charts. "I said I would do it. You need to let me," I plead.

The doctor, a short woman with long brown hair, thumbs through a folder, holding it in front of my face. "Fibrosis," she says, snapping the folder shut. I'm lost as to what the term means. "Substance abuse has caused scarring on the optimal part of your liver. A donation would ultimately harm you far more than it would help Santana. Her body would simply reject the organ and go into shock once more."

_Santana rejecting me. Imagine that._ Before I can further question what options do exist, she leaves without another word. I rush over to Dr. Talks Too Much, the very man that treated me. He probably knows more than Santana's doctor, anyway. He has to. "Tell her that I'm okay to donate. Tell her that I'm okay to help Santana," I practically command.

"You heard her, Brittany," he breathes. "Ideally, you'd be a prime candidate, but…" his voice trails.

"But what?"

"There's too much inflammation. Like she said, with what few healthy fragments of your liver remain, it would be far more detrimental than helpful," he says.

He turns to leave when I latch on to his coat. "Isn't that my decision? I mean, on what happens to me?"

"In this instance, no." He tries budging, but my grip pulls him back. Suspiciously cutting an eye to the wad of coat I'm clutching, the man says, "Now, Ms. Pierce. I'd rather not have you sedated again, but will do so if necessary."

Never before have I felt so helpless. I let go and turn to see both Eddie and Carey staring at me. They heard the entire conversation. More importantly, I recognize the mask of betrayal Eddie wears. It's the same that Santana has worn many times before. Because of me. We move to the window. "That night at Karofsky's," I admit after a couple of wordless minutes. Trying to ignore the eleven-year-old all the while. "I told her that I hated her." With the confession, my breathing picks up. Becomes difficult. My voice hitches. Tears threaten to break free. I whisper again in disbelief, "I said I hated her."

"That was so long ago, though," Carey mutters back.

"Doesn't matter," I object, feeling a tear find its way down my cheek. "I said it, and now I may not get the chance to take it back." We stand silently again, peering into the room Santana once inhabited. The bed she once laid in. I enter, plopping down on the surface. Hoping to feel her presence. Savor it. Both Maribel and Dr. Lopez are gone. For testing, undoubtedly. To see if they can provide Santana with the care that I can't. That my past actions have prohibited me from contributing. "Remember that day in the cemetery?" I eventually ask. Carey nods. "Well, I'm not saying goodbye. I refuse to. I can't."

Carey grunts. "Brittany."

I know that tone. The voice. It mimics my mother's from ten years ago. In this very hospital. Just before Dad was taken away. "Don't give me that," I say, shaking my head. "We're going to find a donor, Santana's going to make it through surgery, wake up, and everything will be okay. Just wait and see."

"But, what if—"

"No. I'm not playing that game," I interrupt.

Carey steels herself, batting both eyes fervently. She picks up the bed-side Bible, ruffling its pages before setting the book down. Typically a very Zen person, Carey seems on edge. Tense. "You might have to, Brittany. Eddie needs you to," she insists. I can no longer deny his presence in the room. There's an empty coldness about it. "If worse comes to worst; if Santana somehow doesn't make it—what are you going to do?"

Both look on for my answer. I should lie. This much is true. But something in Eddie's expression says that even if I did, he would be able to see right through it. It's not fair, though. Telling him the truth. Openly admitting that a life without Santana is no life at all. Then again, when have our lives proved to be anything of the sort? So I brace myself, looking directly to Carey. Sorrow creeping in my words. "I probably wouldn't make it past tomorrow."

* * *

"So who's it going to be?" I ask frantically when Maribel and Dr. Lopez return. It's been nearly five hours since they left, and both adults look drained. More alarming, though, are their solemn faces.

"Neither," Dr. Lopez answers. "We didn't individually possess the correct tissue-blood type combination. They'll begin looking for deceased donors shortly."

_Fucking swell._ Not only am I useless in helping Santana, but her life will now be in the hands of a stranger. A dead stranger. Time is clearly running out. It slowly becomes apparent in everyone's demeanor. I, on the other hand, suddenly feel very proactive. So I snatch an extra pillow from Santana's bed. "Deceased, huh? Give me five minutes," I say too menacingly, exiting the room en route to Thomas Hobbs's. CBG's. The plan is simple. Smother the vegetable and pray he's a match.

I'm around the corner and about fifteen feet away from his room when Carey stops just in front of me. Her eyes hold wide and hands strong as she rips the pillow from my hands, turning me around. "Are you _insane_?" she whispers through clenched teeth. We march directly back to Santana's room before she releases the hold. "I think you need to cool down. Go for a walk or something."

Maybe I am going insane. Stir-crazy with this waiting game. A game that Santana will be the ultimate loser of. Carey's body language says that I'm not getting out of this one, though. Arms crossed. Nostrils flared. It takes all that I have to keep from laughing at the sight. Then again, laughing would only lead to crying. Maybe she's right. Maybe I am insane.

I obey the orders to a tee up until Eddie tries following me out. Like some lost puppy. "Stay," I order from over my shoulder. When he continues after, annoyance sets in. I'm forced to turn around and kneel down, eye level with him. "Stay," I snarl.

Outside, gusts of wind blow from every direction. The force of each nearly knocks me over. I take several deep breaths before aimlessly wandering forward, heading towards nothing in particular. After twenty minutes, I stumble upon a fountain. Water gently flows over the edges onto a tile bottom. Navy blue and teal squares. It's absolutely gorgeous. The kind of place I would insist that Santana crawl from bed in the middle of night to come see.

A young guy with his a guitar serenades handfuls of passersby. Nobody stops to listen, let alone add to the few coins in his open case. I consider ignoring him, too, for Santana's voice is the only I wish to hear. But something about him draws me in. How _alive _he is in performing. So I sit on the fountain's edge, listening as he begins.

_You see her when you close your eyes._

_ Maybe you'll understand why,_

_ Everything you touch surely dies._

He strums at the guitar, face painfully twisting with each line. I'm suddenly angry with the way he sounds. Scruffy with a twinge of rasp. Angelic, almost. Just like Santana.

_But you only need the light when it's burning low;_

_ Only miss the sun when it starts to snow._

_ Only know you love her when you let her go._

Guilt. It invades my chest. My mind. My heart. Anger geared toward the lyrics. At the realization they force me to face. My judge, jury, and executioner. I vowed to never let Santana go again, and I did. And for what? To go off and forgive the very man I was hell-bent on choking out not even an hour ago?

Even though someone could argue that I let her go a very long time ago. After Karofsky's. Our countless arguments at the apartment, when she'd run off. With my mother and the police. I've been steadily pushing her away. Forcing her to leave.

His words are faulty, though, even as the singer quits playing for a moment. He walks over to me, places a quarter in my hand, and continues. I've always known how much I loved Santana, haven't I? Even when I acted as though I didn't. Now, as her days become more and more limited, and when I may never get the chance to do it again, I love her more than ever.

I stare at the street performer. He's frolicking around, unknowing of the song's impact. Oblivious to its effect. I stand; flip the quarter into the fountain, wishing for the only thing I know to, and storm away.

Hours pass and I can't work up the courage to return to Lima Memorial. To Santana. Carey. Eddie. So I stay out, soaking up the silence of a night in Ohio. How quiet things become on a park bench at three o'clock in the morning. Reveling in thoughts and emotions. Inwardly seeking answers since the outer world has so clearly failed me. Nothing comes.

Maybe I should let her go a final time. For the last time. Find contentment I knowing that Santana very well may not be coming back. But something tells me otherwise. The gut feeling. It says that fountain wishes aren't entirely misleading. But all of it's too confusing without Santana to shed some light.

I'm beginning to wish that I'd listened to my heart every other time the world got quiet. Because now, I have no clue of what it's trying to say.

* * *

When sunlight appears over the tree line and birds begin chirping, I decide to face the day ahead. Eddie's outside, too, waiting on a bench in front of the hospital doors. It was chilly out last night, and he's shivering intensely, so I can only imagine how long the boy's been waiting. Surprising, though, considering that I yelled at him. "Expecting somebody?" I ask light-heartedly in approaching. He merely rolls his eyes as I lay my jacket across his shoulders.

Minutes pass before his quivering subsides. "You didn't even flinch," he mutters, refusing to look at me. "Not even a second thought. Even when you knew how dangerous it would be." He's squeezing both eyes shut, shaking his head.

Coming from anyone else, this might pass as a compliment. A testament to my potentially valiant sacrifice. But Eddie, he's too smart for that rationale. He knows the truth of too many things. Particularly that he wasn't in my train of thought earlier. That Santana was the only focus. It didn't matter if anything happened to me. Not in my opinion, at least. Eddie had everything to lose, and I recklessly dismissed it, acting as if I had nothing. The helplessness I constantly feel in losing Santana is undeniably how he feels in this very instant.

"I'd so the same if you were in her position," I say.

Eddie stands up, saying, "Sure."

But I catch his arm and stare into those little brown eyes. "Seriously. And I'm sorry about earlier," I mutter. "What I said, it wasn't right. You were only trying to be there for me."

Only now does he smirk. Painfully, but a grin, nonetheless. "I'm used to being told to leave," he says with a chuckle. "It was a nice change of pace, actually." He cautiously waits before speaking again, catching me slightly off guard. "I need you to promise me something, okay?" I nod and Eddie kicks at a rock on the sidewalk. "I've seen people go to a bad place after big things happen, and I need you to promise me that you won't go there. Because I couldn't handle that."

I think of exactly what happened after my mother left. How hopeless everything felt. How labeling the downward spiral as "bad" would be an understatement. And though Eddie is all-knowing of truths, he's still eleven. He's still been through the ringer alongside me. It wouldn't feel right exposing him to that. So I give my best Santana nod and muster an even more Santana-like response. "Yeah, buddy. Of course."

We walk inside and he tears off toward the cafeteria as I ascend to Santana's floor. A nurse is in her room, peeling the bed sheets off and replacing them with new ones. The trash has been removed. As if she's preparing the area for new guests. It sends a ripple of fear through me as I dart inside. "You've got the wrong room," I blurt out.

The nurse stiffens and checks a list, shaking her head. "Santana Lopez?" I nod. "Then I'm in the correct room."

"What's happened?" I immediately ask, panicked. "Why are you changing everything?"

The nurse's eyes soften in my earnestness. "It's hospital protocol for a return from surgery."

_A return from surgery._ I don't know why, but I instantly sprint out and to CBG's room with the news. Not expecting him to be awake or anything. But to clear my conscious, perhaps. Apologize for trying to kill him by way of a pillow. His room is empty, though. The bed is stripped bare. Trash removed. The sliver of paper that once contained his initials has been removed. All signs of life wiped clean.

I ask a passing nurse where he might be, but she isn't permitted to share that kind of information. In Santana's room, I question another nurse on the nature of my best friend's surgery. Who the donor was or is. When the decision was made. She isn't permitted to share that, either.

Soon enough, Dr. Lopez returns to explain how quickly the process began. Everything that unfolded in my absence. There was a twenty-four-hour window. The time afforded to potential recipients. Should an organ become available, the patient is immediately brought in. Many are called from home at some ungodly hour. Luckily, Santana was at the ready.

Later tonight, when Santana is finally wheeled back into the room and transferred to her bed, I spot a chart that contains details from the surgery. Though I probably shouldn't look at it, curiosity gets the best of me. A silent wanting to thank whoever saved my best friend's life. I scan the paper. Looking, looking, looking. Until I spot it. The name. In a split second, my heart is equally warmed and saddened.

Apparently, Thomas Hobbs was an organ donor.

* * *

She is nowhere near conscious, but it doesn't deter me from curling into Santana and hanging on for dear life. Days pass. I stay locked in next to her the entire time, getting up only when it feels as though my bladder might explode. Eddie's sure to bring me a scrap of food from time to time. Doctors come in to do their checkups and make sure everything's running smoothly. I refuse to budge even for them.

The steady lull of Santana's breathing rocks me to sleep most nights. And afternoons. And mornings. In the off chance that I'm awake, I tell her stories. Of all kinds. My fondest memories. Darkest secrets. Things she's already heard before. I even tell her the cemetery story—reading the poem to Bernadette—just because I'm starting to run out of ideas. "But I'm not going to say goodbye to you," I finish. "And I can't do this alone. Not with these two hands. So come back to me, Santana. You always do."

After five days have disappeared in the twilight of sleeping and hoping for Santana to wake, I flutter my eyes open like every other morning. Everyone quietly waits in the room's chairs. Maribel is crying again. I freak out and look to Santana, half-expecting her to have disappeared once more. "Your dad sends his best," she says, grinning from ear to ear.

* * *

My initial reaction is to squeeze the life out of my best friend, and I do. In fact, she gets the best BSP hug that I can physically manage. But violently coughs afterward. "Arrested twice. Shot once. I'm starting to think that you're bad luck, Brittany Pierce," she chuckles. Tears block my vision, but I can hear the smile in her words. She then brushes a wad of hair behind my ear, asking, "How are you feeling?" Her voice is shallow and hoarse, but words warm. "They said that you had some issues, too."

"Please don't do this," I soon choke out in between sniffles, an emulsion of equal parts excitement and shame becoming more prominent. Santana appears taken aback. "Please don't act like I'm the one you should be worrying about."

Santana doesn't cease in smiling while she lazily wraps both arms around me. "Oh, but you are," she teases, giving me a squeeze. Then, after a heavy sigh, her features stiffen. "And if it's any consolation, this trip wasn't entirely for naught. Because they've found something else."

Panic returns to my bones as I immediately look to the others for answers. Carey and Maribel are now seemingly emotionless. Just like in the hallway, when I begged to know what was happening with Santana. But Dr. Lopez, he's grinning. Santana huffs in annoyance before breaking the façade and scolding, "Damn it, Dad. I told you to play along."

Everyone begins laughing at my expense. "_So_ not cool," is all I can manage. Then I jokingly ask, "Is Heaven as far away as you said it'd be?"

"Farther," she laughs. I then nestle into Santana's neck as she and her parents exchange small talk. Both parties are being cordial, which I account to the steady drip of morphine coursing into Santana's bloodstream. She's not loopy, but definitely feeling the effects. When a letup in conversation returns, she struggles with a deep breath before asking, "Where's the kid, anyway?"

"Eddie," I immediately correct.

She giggles. "I just died and you're worried about formalities?"

I nod. Eddie eventually wanders up to the room, arms filled with an assortment of food. Junk, mostly. Things that eleven-year-old boys can be trusted to pick out. His face lights up in seeing Santana, and she's the first he offers the goodies to. "Restocked the cafeteria this morning," he boasts.

I keep quiet, not wanting to reprimand Eddie for his thieving tendencies in front of Maribel and Dr. Lopez. He certainly had no money of his own. Santana, on the other hand, was the one who caught him underneath the bleachers with Puck. She knows his antics. So she takes a finger, signaling for the boy to come closer. "You'll have to lean in. I can't speak very loudly," she says. And when Eddie closes the distance between them, Santana tiredly extends her left hand and connects it to the back of his head. A loud _thwack_ fills the room. "We don't steal," she snaps, grabbing a candy bar from his pile. "We pay for things. Now take the rest back."

As Eddie sulks downstairs, rubbing at his head, Santana tears into the food. Her parents keep still, quietly eyeing the spectacle that just happened. "He was worried sick about you," I say in Eddie's defense.

Santana merely grins and takes a bite. When it's finished, she clears her throat and says, "Well, I suspect that you'll be off to school in a little while." I furiously shake my head. There's no chance in hell that I'm leaving her again. But my fervor isn't enough to deter the Latina's obvious parental streak. So she exploits what leverage she has. "If you still want your birthday present, then you'll need to go to class. But take a shower first. You smell like ass."

After two weeks of wearing the same outfit, you become immune to the stench. But I do shower in the too-small hospital bathroom. The idea of leaving Santana still isn't something I'm too keen on, though. She must sense this, for when I sneakily try climbing back into bed, an arm blocks my way. "There's hate in your heart, Brittany Pierce. I can see it. No room for hatred in this bed."

"I just thought I'd lost you is all," I mutter ashamedly.

Then, peering directly into my eyes, she warmly says, "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

* * *

I manage my way through school as quickly as possible. Keeping an eye on my cellphone the entire time, just in case something freakish should happen. It doesn't. Using nausea as an excuse to skip glee practice, I'm allowed a sigh of relief when Carey retrieves me mid-afternoon.

Faint chatter sounds from inside the hospital room. Santana's voice is recognizable. There's another that I can't quite place, though. Not initially. "You're not going to hit me again, are you?" the voice asks. It's Eddie. I peek inside, watching as he climbs atop the bed. Playing cards are spread across a makeshift tabletop.

I watch the two interact. How, if only for a hidden moment, they don't seem to despise the other's existence. They sit in silence, paying close attention to their respective hands. It's a peaceful scene. Light-hearted. "You know, she was pretty quick in volunteering for that surgery," Eddie says, placing a card down.

Santana chuckles and does the same. "Love makes you do funny things. I'm not sure I'd recommend it to someone your age. Or mine, for that matter." They laugh in unison.

I venture off for a cup of coffee, returning to a much different atmosphere. They're still playing, but the game must be coming to an end because both seem on edge. Far too competitive for their own goods, these two. "No. Fuck you, dude," Santana says. "I'm not cheating. You are."

"How would you know? You're on drugs," Eddie points out.

"My Psychic Mexican Third Eye is never wrong," Santana spits. "Now lift your leg." I meander inside to find Eddie retrieving a handful of cards that he's been stashing underneath his leg. Santana looks proud in her diagnosis, slapping down a final card and claiming her victory. "Crippled and still kicking ass."

Maribel, Dr. Lopez, and Carey all join us in the cramped room. Tension quickly fills the air. Questions unanswered. Resolutions that need making. Maribel breaks the silence by clearing her throat. "So… _Eddie_. Where are you from?"

He immediately shrugs, collecting the pile in front. "All over, really."

"Where, exactly, is 'all over'?" she asks, sitting upright.

Eddie shrugs again. He's enjoying himself, and in turn, it unsettles me. Pissing off the Lopezs is currently at the bottom of my list of priorities. "Tennessee, Kentucky, and Ohio," he says, flashing a toothy grin and snaking a hand upward. "Straight up the map."

Maribel nods at the information, but doesn't seem entirely convinced. He doesn't necessarily have anything to prove, but being in our care means being particularly careful. Especially when the Lopezs and Pierces have never been on the best of terms.

Santana emulates what I feel, and comes to the rescue. She collects the deck of cards, tapping them into a neat rectangle. "You did a heroic deed, helping Britts and I," she says to Eddie. "But I'm not fond of thieves, and I hate to say it, but no hoodlum is going to live in my apartment." His face falls with the statement. Deflated by her abruptness. I'm far too focused on Santana's intent to move back in to notice the protest Maribel forms. Santana speaks again, though, blatantly ignoring her mother. "As a firm believer in equal opportunity, though, you'll be given a fighting chance. One more game. You win, you stay."

It's a bit brash, the rationale. She deals the cards, however, not giving Eddie a chance to respond. Or me the chance to formulate a counter.

As the game ensues, I rush back and forth. From person to person. Secretly hoping that my teachings don't fail him now. It's a pretty close matchup, but as the game nears to a close, Santana creeps closer towards winning. Because she always won between us, I know exactly what losing looks like. Right now, it resembles the line Eddie dangerously tiptoes along. In fact, Santana could end it all with a single card. The two of diamonds. "Jesus, Brittany," she calls out as I continue dancing about. "Are you trying to kill me again?"

I take this as my cue to sit down, knowing full and well what's about to happen. Santana's made it clear that she intends on returning to the apartment. And I'm ecstatic, but a lack of Eddie really puts a damper on things. Normally, I would scratch this off as a dumb decision-making tool. But I really want my best friend back, too. So I wait, wait, wait for the inevitable. Quickly trying to forge a way of having my cake and eating it, too.

What happens next is surprising. Surprising as in—"we were cornered in a sketchy alleyway and Santana was shot"—surprising. For Santana, with her general distaste for the eleven-year-old, merely shrugs. She shrugs. That's it. And in one fell swoop, she places her cards face down and says, "Well, it looks like you're going to be stuck with us for a little while."

* * *

Maribel instantly verbalizes her protest. "Santana, honey. I think there are some things we need to discuss before any plans are set in motion." She speaks uncomfortably, but not maliciously.

Santana then reaches over, gives a now-beaming Eddie ten dollars, and sends him downstairs. Carey accompanies him, and I'm about to follow suit when Santana grabs hold of my forearm. "No more excuses. You need to be in here for this," she says. I've conveniently had a reason every other time her voice became serious. A bathroom or coffee break. Keeping watch over Eddie. But now, as Santana initiates a vice grip on my limb, there is no getting out of the conversation I've been dreading.

The Lopez women begin battling it out over Santana's near future. The doctors are adamant about her having a night or two free of complications. After that, she's free for discharge. Maribel clearly wants Santana to continue living at their house. Dr. Lopez remains silent. I take his approach. "I just don't see why you can't come home with us. You've been through a lot," Maribel insists.

Whereas she would usually be snide at this point, Santana remains gracious. "You and Dad have been great to me, and I'm extremely grateful for that. But it's time that we all get back into a normal lifestyle, and normalcy for me is with Brittany," she says with a smile plastered to her face. "Besides, I've got a new roommate to torment."

Maribel hushes as Santana then shifts to me, fear settling into my bones. Nervousness overcomes me. About what she'll assuredly say next. How undeserving I am of it. "Once we get back to—"

"You don't have to come back. Eddie and I will manage," I hurriedly interject.

Rolling onto her side, she laughs. Then makes direct eye contact with me. Seriousness washes over her face. A hardened twinge. Whispering, Santana says, "I don't know if you've heard, but I died the other day. I _died_." She scoffs in disbelief, a mist settling in both eyes. "I'm tired, B. So. Fucking. Tired. Of being angry with the people I love."

She cuts a glance to both parents, faintly smiling. Then back to me. "I can't lie and say that I understand why you did what you did. I can't say that I would've done the same. But I can get over it. _We _can move past it, okay?" I nod, a fresh set of tears streaming freely. "And it's not just the drugs talking, Brittany Susan Pierce. You will be forgiven tomorrow and the next day. And I will still love you. For the next twenty-seven years and until the end of time. Does that sound manageable?"

"Perfect," I agree.

Santana grins. "Good. Now come here and give me a kiss before I change my mind."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**__** To those of you fearing Santana's death: While the events of this piece are entirely of my creation (and a handful of characters), the two main focal points are not. Therefore, despite what little creative license exists, it is not my duty or responsibility to kill any of them off.**_

_**Besides, that shit would hurt too fucking bad. Lol.**_

**Channy2425: Answer enough? Lol.**

**JJLives: I'm kind of glad that you obsessively check it, as well. I certainly appreciate that. **

**Adrimarie97: OMG, I did not.**

**4evamuzic: It's safe to say that she is not.**

**StephaniieC: Thank you so very much for your wonderful compliment. And I noticed that you were nowhere to be found last chapter. I was like, "Yep. Better kill somebody, just because of this." Lol.**

**anongurl (Guest): A squeal and an arm flair is the fastest way to my heart, lol. As always, thanks for taking the time to review.**

**insertnameherex: I am sorry for all of the "cliffys", but I'm quite the fan of the things. Thank you so very much for each of the compliments. They mean the world. (And yes, even tears are considered compliments.)**

**Cassondra (Guest): HERE IS MORE PLEASE DONT BE SAD EVERYTHIGN WILL BE OKAY PLEASE GO EAT SOME ICE CREAM OR SOMETHING. And as always, I thank you.**

**LoneGambit: And this is why I love seeing you appear in my emails. Lol. Though I would never push my opinions on another, especially through writing, it warms my heart to see that maybe something more is getting through. As always, many thanks.**

**luceroadorada: Guuuurl, I could never do that. Lol. Thank you for the review, my friend.**

**Guest: Oh, goodness. Those afterlife stories give me heartburn. I could never bring myself to write one, lol. (As far as holding anyone's feelings 'hostage', I am so terribly sorry. Lol.) Thank you so very much for the review.**

**pictureofsuccess: Well, I most certainly thank you for that. Please don't allow the Eddie bit distract you in the least. I promise, it will be dealt with accordingly. Lol.**


	22. Chapter 22

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

_**Side Note: Why didn't anybody remind me to give credit to Passenger for their song, "Let Her Go"? Lol. (Actually, many thanks go to ****4evamuzic for the reminder.)**_

* * *

"Au revoir, bitches!" Santana calls from her wheelchair. It's been three days since her recovery and the doctors have finally administered a clean bill of health. This means only one thing—we're finally allowed to return to the apartment.

There are a few snide looks shot at the Latina as I wheel her into the lobby, venturing to the front desk to officially sign out. Santana is fiddling with her cellphone, seemingly confused as she presses a button and holds it to her ear. The process repeats multiple times. "Funny," she says, ogling the device. "I've got a million missed calls and a million more voicemails." She then smiles warmly. I vividly remember staying out the other night. Desperately calling Santana's phone, believing it to be the last I'd ever hear of her voice.

The thought chokes me up until Santana pats her lap and says, "Come here." I wander over, sitting down as gently as possible and wrapping both arms around her neck. She then cups my cheek and kisses me deeply, as if it's the last she'll ever experience. Like she's been doing at random moments throughout the past three days. "God, I've missed that. And since I've got loads of time to make up for, you should expect it to happen plenty more often."

I wheel her through the sliding glass doors, basking in the cool afternoon air. Dr. Lopez and Maribel went ahead and brought Santana's car up to the hospital. He drops the keys in my hand, gives a comforting smile, and we're headed to Lima Heights.

At the apartment, we make it a point to use the front entrance, avoiding any and all sketchy alleyways. Santana struggles with getting out of the vehicle, much less climbing the stairs. She forces Eddie is forced to carry the duffel bags while I help her maneuver the staircase. The straps dangle down to his ankles.

Inside, the place looks just as we left it. Tidy from the night Santana came over. Haunted from what happened shortly thereafter. "It looks like a ghost town," Santana points out, and I couldn't agree more. Everything is still. Untouched. Perfect in comparison to all that lies outside of these four walls.

I've been fully expecting a quiet night in. A time of re-acclimation, only in hopes of falling back into a normal routine. Because right now, normalcy feels most out of the ordinary. Tending to daily activities in a peaceful manner just doesn't fit this household's bill. Santana has ulterior motives, it seems, for she immediately insists that we tend to the various boxes of Christmas decorations that litter the living room. Eddie groans. I can't blame him.

And while she is fully intent on cleaning up before anything else, Santana makes no effort toward the cause. In fact, she stumbles slowly toward the couch, plopping down with a loud huff. Eddie and I are left to unload and break down each box, one by one. The process is grueling, especially for anyone who's been living in a hospital for the past few weeks. Whose limbs are stiff from inactivity. I sat by Santana's bed most hours, and now I'm paying for it. "We could roll her down the stairs," Eddie mutters under his breath when Santana isn't looking.

She clearly has a Psychic Mexican Third Ear, too, because "I was shot. Physical strain isn't recommended." is the next line spoken.

"I had a heart attack and you don't see me lounging around," I say.

Santana folds her arms and grunts. "Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but a gun wound trumps passing out any day."

"Heart attack," I mumble, clearing a box of assorted lights.

After what feels like ages, every remnant of Bernadette is neatly put away in various nooks and crannies. Whatever extra space the already small apartment can afford. "I'll take that," Santana says of a small red bell from one of the last boxes. She then puts the picture of Bernadette and her siblings on a stand nearest the couch and orders pizza.

The three of us pile in front of the television. Santana has already commandeered tonight's movie choice, as well, which I expect to be something far over Eddie's and my head. Complex and loud, just like her. Surprisingly enough, it's The Lion King. So I allow myself an hour's worth of enjoyment, nestling into Santana's side as Eddie focuses primarily on devouring half of the pepperoni pizza.

By the time the end credits roll, she's fallen asleep four separate times. I haven't had the gall to wake her, but Eddie's been diligent in giving a firm nudge each time a snore chokes free. I help Santana to bed, keeping her arm draped over my shoulder the entire way. It's a tedious process, making sure she doesn't overexert herself in everyday activities. Especially when she gets out of breath from breathing.

We're both finally settled in when Eddie appears in the bedroom doorway. He's propped against the bat we usually keep nearest the front door. "So… yeah," he says hesitantly. "I'm just going to make sure that the door's locked and then I'll be off to bed." His bed being the couch, of course. I mentally add a place to sleep to the list of things children probably need.

"I'll get this," Santana breathes, and begins the process that it getting up.

I lift her up and toward the door, where she wrestles the bat from Eddie's hands and uses it as a makeshift cane. The door is already locked, this much I know. I personally checked it twice after the delivery man left. So, as Santana accompanies Eddie to check it a third time, the realization kicks in. The one that's so blatantly avoided me in the hustle and bustle of Santana's return. The fact that Eddie eventually quit jumping at spontaneous, loud noises fooled me into thinking he'd gotten over what trauma still existed. Evidently not. It makes me feel terrible, not recognizing. It equally makes me feel guarded, now having Santana around to help with these sorts of things.

When they return, Eddie lingers in the doorway again. Even as Santana plops back onto the mattress. What happens next is extremely out of character, more so for the Latina. A girl I've known to explicitly resist the growing of compassionate bones. She lifts an arm, silently waiting for the eleven-year-old, who eventually climbs in between the both of us.

I wake with a start sometime in the middle of the night. In another cold sweat, just as in the hospital. My eyes frantically dart across the blackened room. Nothing seems out of place. I then look to my side, where Eddie lies on his stomach, face smashed against the bat he coddles. Next to him, Santana lies on her stomach, too. They even snore in tandem. A smile creeps across my face. At how the two mirror each other. The only difference being that instead of a bat, Santana has one arm stretched across the boy's back, clutching tightly onto a wad of my shirt. I then try prying the cold aluminum away from Eddie, but he refuses to let go.

The next time I wake, the bed is solely-inhabited. Worry washes over me as I feel a gluey presence on my forehead. A yellow sticky note that reads, "_I love you."_ I'd recognize the handwriting any day.

Faint clatter sounds from down the hallway. "I said a splash of milk," Santana scolds. "You've poured an entire fucking monsoon."

Eddie, who stands on a chair and hunkered over a bowl nearest the stovetop, slams a milk jug onto the counter. "Maybe if you weren't entirely stuck up my ass, I wouldn't have poured too much."

"Eggs," Santana says, waving both hands in disbelief. "I was completely unaware that making scrambled eggs was open-heart surgery."

"Gee, Ward. Aren't you being a little hard on The Beaver?" I playfully call out, grabbing their attention. Retrieving a bowl and box of Lucky Charms, I finish more firmly with, "We don't cuss, either." Eddie scoffs and looks to Santana. I follow to her. "No cussing."

Santana's eyes remain wide-set while I hurry through a bowl of cereal as quickly as my mouth will allow. "You're not going to eat with us? After I slaved away over this food?" she asks. Eddie coughs from the stove.

Quickly returning the bowl to the sink, I return and place a kiss to her forehead, sealing it with the sticky note from before. I then tease, "Somebody's got to pay rent."

School and work can't pass quickly enough. It becomes increasingly difficult to pay attention to either when you leave someone who can barely function and another who can barely see over the countertop alone to duke it out. And even though Dr. Lopez has agreed to help with bills until Santana is back on her feet, a third party still makes stretching funds difficult. Especially with the price of Santana's medication on top of it all. So I work meticulously. With purpose. As all other time, it eventually passes, and I'm allowed to hit Mach one on the freeway.

Bickering can be heard from outside the apartment. "Two layers, I said," Santana's voice rings out. "Or else it won't hold. Tape the other flap back while you're at it."

I sneak through the door, closing it with the least amount of necessary force. Eddie and Santana are nowhere to be found, though voices come from inside a heaping stack of cardboard. Strips of packing tape hold each piece together. "If you touch it again, I'll tape your hands together and throw you in the closet," Eddie snaps.

No words are exchanged over the next few minutes. No quarreling. Instead, noises of pulling and tearing fill the void. I survey the apartment, witnessing what remains of their day together. How, in the course of eight hours, they've managed to transform the place into a pig sty is beyond me. Shreds of cardboard litter the floor. Cushions are missing from the couch. Takeout boxes are splayed all over the kitchen. Even a string of Christmas lights lines the carpet, a trail connecting the wall and somewhere inside the boxed mass.

"Almost done," Santana boasts. "You know, I used to tell B that underneath her covers was the safest place in the world. But this is a close second." Then there's some unintelligible muttering on Eddie's part that I can't quite make out. That is, until Santana speaks up again. More softly, this time. "I want you to listen to me," she begins steadily. "So long as Brittany and I have anything to say about it, nothing bad will ever happen again. To you, especially. You're safe with us. I promise." She finishes with a cold, "Just don't tell Brittany that I said any of this."

I try creeping into the bedroom, allowing Eddie and Santana their moment. Unfortunately, the lights trail much farther than I've imagined and catch my leg in the hallway. An ugly topple to the ground later, and Santana alarmingly calls out, "Brittany?"

Sounds of scuffle and ripping follow. Then Santana appears in the hallway, caning her way as intimidatingly as physically possible. "Nothing to see here," I joke, attempting to wriggle my leg free of the strand.

"Damn it, B," she whines. "I practically ripped down half of the fort thinking you were a burglar."

I flash my sleepiest yet toothiest grin. "Run along, then," I say, shooing her away.

Santana grunts and turns, using the bat as a pivot. She catches herself, though, and faces me again. "Oh, and I'll be going to school tomorrow."

"It's only been a day. Besides, you're in recovery," I quickly dismiss.

"Cabin fever, B. And if it continues for just one more day, this cabin's going to be short a camper," she breathes, cutting both eyes to the crumpled boxes.

She doesn't realize that I've been eavesdropping the entire time. And probably just as well, because Santana would deny being so comforting until her dying day. She'd then stop altogether. So I nod in agreement. "Very well. On one condition, though." I'm grinning devilishly and Santana cocks a questioning eyebrow. "Don't tell Brittany."

Waking up alone again, I would assume Santana and Eddie to be in the kitchen, having words about breakfast food. The only issue is, though, that neither came to bed last night. And where I was incredibly weary from a long day, tripping over those lights really heightened my senses. Kept me up for half of the night. Listening as Santana and Eddie worked on fixing the cardboard emulsion until an ungodly hour didn't help, either.

So it comes as no shocker that when I'm up and about to round the troops, two pairs of feet poke out from underneath a flap. They seem to have repaired the fort and fallen out in doing so. I peek inside to find Eddie lying face down across one of Santana's extended arms. Clear tape crosses his body at all angles. Lights are hung in each corner. Couch cushions make up the floor. I slap the cardboard siding, jarring them both awake.

Santana doesn't forgive me for the brusque wake-up call until after we've dropped Eddie off and made it to McKinley. She then un-forgives me when I retrieve the wheelchair from the trunk. "No way," Santana says, shaking her head.

"Yes way," I insist. "Unless you'd rather babysit again. I'm sure we've got some extra sheets you can tie together and make a clubhouse of your own."

With that, she angrily plops down into the chair. "By the way, it's a _fort_. Clubhouses are for chumps."

Inside, curious eyes cut as we maneuver through the hallways. Like Santana is a leprechaun that _everyone_ can see. Ms. Pillsbury smiles from her office and Coach Sylvester nudges past us, so maybe everything hasn't changed. Even though I can't remember either locker combination, I can open Santana's for her. And just as I'm about to wheel her to class, two figures approach us from behind.

"We're so terribly sorry to hear about your accident," Rachel says right off the bat.

I look to Quinn, who swore up and down that she would keep the event under wraps. Who I clearly made the mistake of trusting. The blonde's eyes widen and cut to Rachel. "She pries. You remember how she acted when I was pregnant." Of course. Even though everyone in glee already knew, Rachel was terribly persistent in snooping.

But the shorter brunette isn't deterred, and she clears her throat, stiffening upright. She even cups and folds both hands in front, like one of those old-timey choir boys. "In regards to recent events, we in the glee club would like to extend an invitation to perform with us at Nationals," she sing-songs proudly.

Santana doesn't acknowledge Rachel. Instead, she looks dead into my eyes. "Please tell Hobbit and Baby Mama that I do not want their pity."

I look up and swallow. Quinn immediately deadpans, "Please tell Wheels that it isn't pity, but genuine sincerity toward a former member."

"Please tell Baby Mama that these wheels will begin knocking ankles if she does not take Hobbit and leave this instant," Santana spits.

I'm beginning to develop whiplash from jerking my head up and down so quickly. Remarks continue in like fashion until Quinn finishes the dispute with a snide, "Please tell Wheels that we're glad to see that she hasn't changed a bit."

When the pair disappears, I lean over and whisper, "I liked you better on the drugs."

"I did, too," Santana laughs.

"You know, Puck's having a get-together this weekend," I mention en route to the pharmacy after school. The doctors were pretty resolute about Santana's prescriptions being filled and taken on time. For the sake of her wound healing correctly.

Santana laughs at the statement. Her old ironic laugh. "I've sworn off any and all partying until I'm thirty," she says. We're off to physical therapy shortly thereafter. And then her parole meeting. All leniency she once gained is now null, and she's back to meeting with the officer once a week. Because being gunned down doesn't excuse you from also being accused of kidnapping, I've learned.

As far as community service is considered, I listen as Santana sugarcoats an elaborate scheme in mentoring a disabled boy. Afterward, when I question the nature of Eddie's "disability", her only rationale is that "he will be if he crosses the sass line one too many times".

When everything is finally complete for the day, it's roughly eight o'clock. We're both dead tired, and I still have work in about two hours. So we pick Eddie up, drop them both at the apartment, and I'm almost through the door again when Santana catches me. "Speaking of this weekend—I invited Carey over for dinner on Friday night. If that's okay with you."

"Perfect," I chime, turning to leave once more. But Santana huffs loudly. She does this every time I forget, so I turn and place a kiss to her lips, trying to finally leave when she pulls me in for another. "If we keep this up, I'm going to be late." Santana merely smiles into our last.

The next few days pass in a blink. A constant cycle of school, Santana's physical therapy, parole sessions, and work. Only to wake up to do it all over again. By the time Friday rolls around, I'm grateful for a change of pace. And after a trip to the grocery store, complete with three separate falling outs between Santana and Eddie, we're at the apartment and preparing the only meal our two households are permitted to share.

Santana is hell-bent on actually participating in tonight's cooking. With Eddie's help, of course. I've even offered to aide, but Eddie quickly dismisses it with, "No disrespect or anything, but if you cook, then we may as well starve." I expect a retort from Santana, but she merely snickers giggles.

Carey practically bursts into tears upon seeing the picture of Bernadette. She almost does it again in tasting how similar the food is to her grandmother's. Mind the occasional misty-eyed dinner guest, though, our meal goes off without a hitch. Even Santana and Eddie keep their banter at a civil level. For the most part, at least.

We force Eddie to clear the table afterward, and Santana places a hand on my forearm when he's in the kitchen. To Carey, she asks, "Would it be any trouble for you to keep the kid tomorrow night? We'll pay double."

I instantly know where this is heading, and even more firmly object the idea. "No, no, no. You're supposed to be taking it easy."

"What I'm _supposed_ to do is dance the night away with my girl," Santana says. "Besides, I've missed one prom already."

Carey chimes in. "I agree. If I had a prom to go to, I'd totally be there."

"We don't even have dresses," I helplessly insist. The table is clearly stacked against me. And with this new, weird semi-alliance Eddie and Santana have formed while I'm away, I don't even bother looking to him for assistance.

Santana chuckles at how apparently desperate I'm coming off. "Since when has wardrobe—or hygiene, for that matter—ever stopped us from doing anything?" _Great. _A knock at my weeks of not bathing in the hospital. Even though it's easy to make jokes when you're the one unconscious for most of that time.

"And you love to dance," Eddie finally chimes in, mouth awkwardly moving about to locate his straw.

Santana waves her hand Vanna White-style at the input. "It'd be nice to feel like a normal teenager for once," she sighs before muttering under her breath. "You know, because I was shot and all."

I shove her arm, and she pulls back in mock pain, a sly smile forming in her lips. The three of them sit and stare at me, undoubtedly waiting for an answer other than "no". Dancing the night away _does _sound better than anything else right now, but Santana is in no physical condition to do so. Eventually, after minutes of pointed silence, with gazes raining down, I cave. "Fine," I say in defeat. "But we're taking the chair. And we leave when I say so."

Three smiles then victoriously form upon the three faces.

"Seems that I'm full of bad ideas this month," Santana whispers as we near the entrance to McKinley. She's wearing the same red blouse and skinny jeans from our dinner date ages ago. I've taken a similar approach and aimed for comfort this evening. Especially considering how uncomfortable I presume spending a night with our classmates will be.

I wheel her through the double doors. "If things get too awkward, just let me know and we'll start rolling into people's ankles," I whisper back. Santana smiles.

Tonight's theme is dinosaurs, and though I've never voiced it aloud, I believe the concept to be a spectacular one. Partly because I helped conceive the idea. Partly because I get to dance around in a costume equivalent to that of a female Fred Flinstone. Everyone wins tonight.

Almost immediately, I'm rushed away to dress for the performance. Santana is parked nearest a group of tables, ducking anyone who tries speaking with her. I keep both eyes trained on her up until a group of T-Rex head clad cheerleaders surrounds me. Music kicks on through the loudspeaker and I throw myself into the routine.

Everyone applauds at the song's end. Breathless and sweaty, I change and return to Santana, who grins dumbly. "Who knew singing about old creepers could make someone look so sexy?" she chimes. Warmth fills my cheeks at the compliment. And this is my best friend not lulled by hospital-strength pain killers.

Throughout the evening, we dance as much as physically possible. Which isn't too terribly much, on account of a wheelchair being the least fluid of all devices. We manage, though. Rachel tries approaching us just as soon as she and Finn arrive, but Santana's glare is enough to send her away. And the same for any glee member who attempts striking conversation, if even from a safe distance.

We endure a medley of songs covered by the glee club. Well, Santana endures. I enjoy. Shortly after Rachel and Finn are announced as prom royalty, Mr. Schuester approaches us somewhere next to the stage. I try signaling with my eyes of what Rachel and Quinn already attempted and how it monstrously failed. He persists anyway, being the undeniably chipper person that he is. "Not interested," Santana instantly dismisses upon recognizing the teacher's presence.

"This isn't about Nationals," he says light-heartedly. "Principal Figgins would like you to step on stage and say a few words. In the spirit of your return. You're on in five." And then he turns, not giving Santana a chance to deny the offer.

The next five minutes are grueling. Whatever the equivalent to pacing in a wheelchair is, it's what Santana is currently doing. When Principal Figgins approaches the microphone and introduces her, faint applause follows. My best friend, however, remains glued in position. "What are you waiting for?" I whisper as hundreds of eyes shift in our direction.

"A camera crew to jump out and say that all of this is a joke," she mutters agitatedly. "Ashton Kutcher or _something._"

Not giving her much choice, I place both hands underneath her arms, pulling Santana to her feet. She is equally unappreciative when I force her to move up the stairs. A stool has been placed in front of the microphone. When she's settled in and I'm about to leave, a hand grips my forearm tightly. Nails sink into flesh. Looks like I'm not getting out of this, either.

Under the blinding spotlight, I stand by her side. Actually, I'm only standing until Mr. Schuester brings out another stool. Soon enough, we're sitting alone on stage, feeling the pressuring silence of hundreds rain down. "So, um," Santana begins, voice cracking. I give her back a comforting squeeze. The Latina then pauses, signals to someone behind the curtain, and whispers something that I can't catch. He sprints back behind the curtain and fiddles with a stereo system.

"Though it's been a while, I'm going to try my hand at singing for the lovely couple's first dance," she says, looking to Finn and Rachel. "And even though it's not actually _for _them, we'll pretend that it is. The rest of you losers can pair up and even pretend that I'm singing for you, if you so please." She laughs to herself, flashes a nervous smile to me, and signals to Behind the Curtain Boy.

The music begins. "_If an angel came down to me; asked what I would do differently. I would say, nothing, you see. I have loved someone truly," _Santana hoarsely bellows. Even if it is a half-scream half-squeak, her voice is still ten times better than mine.

Finn and Rachel begin dancing in each other's arms, as does every other couple on the floor. I look to Santana, who's getting into the tune. Eyes closed, smiling. Shoulders thumping along with the beat. "_And if the rain ain't falling, and the sun ain't shining. It makes no difference to me. I'm right where I wanna be."_

Even Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury begin dancing with each other. "_If tonight is my last, what I gotta do? And if tonight is my last, I wanna spend it with you. And if the sky falls down, it's gonna be all right. Cos I got you here tonight, oooh."_

When Santana hums out the final line, everyone appears to be shocked from their own worlds. Clapping slightly louder than before fills the gym, and a thumb rubs soothingly over my wrist. Santana beams proudly over her performance. And so do I.

As I wheel her toward the room's back, Principal Figgins calls from beside Coach Sylvester, "Absolutely lovely, Santana."

It seems that not everyone has taken as kindly to the ode, though, because Puck and Karofsky begin snickering as we pass by. I try avoiding them before Santana catches wind, but Puck stumbles in front, blocking the way. He struggles to stand upright, breath reeking of alcohol. Makes me wonder how he ever snuck past Coach Sue, who guards the punch bowl every year. Then again, he didn't show up until Rachel and Finn did, which was about halfway through the evening.

"Missed you last night," he slurs, sipping from a small paper cup. "Lucky for you, there's an after party as well. Private, if necessary." Puck then attempts what I assume to be a wink.

Karofsky, bumbling around just as sloppily, comes to Puck's side. At this point, Santana is well aware of the situation. "Unless, of course, Crippled McCrippledPants needs a sponge bath first." He snickers. Santana pushes both arms against their rests, trying to stand. She must be angry, because forcing her down by the shoulders takes more effort on my part than it should. Leave it to Santana to radiate strength, even when she technically isn't supposed to.

An idea presents itself, though. An amiable means of handling the situation. Both present and past. I fish into my pocket for Lord Tubbington's former lucky lighter, a memento that I carry everywhere. "You know, in some cultures, the way a man handles fire is his only validation of manliness," I explain. In consideration to Santana's previous streak of delivering cryptic messages, this one might actually come to life. (In a positive manner, of course. The milk incident doesn't count.)

Both guys stand dumbfounded as I flick the lighter once, twice. In a darkened corner of the arena, small bursts of orange illuminate all of our faces. "And since I only associate with real men, this will be the perfect test. It's simple, really. Not nearly as primal, but easier," I say. "Whoever holds the longest flame wins. I'll even drop Crippled McCrippledPants off before coming over."

I feel Santana's shoulder twist underneath my hand, but don't look down. Instead, I watch intently as Puck digs into his pocket for a tool similar to mine and hands it to Karofsky. He takes the one from my hand, counts them both down, and the contest begins.

Not even a minute in, both faces twist in agony. Burning fingers, undoubtedly. But because Brittany Susan Pierce always looks her best when going into public with Santana Lopez, a couple of scars is well worth the effort. I know this. Santana knows this. She even relaxes a bit, joining in watching as both guys feel the effects of a drunken challenge.

Puck's personal lighter must be low on fluid, because it's the first to explode. Karofsky releases a howl of pain as the burst of sparks erupts in his hand. And since Lord Tubbington chain-smoked religiously, I know that his is in similar condition. Seconds later, Puck is shrieking all the same. Now, if you believe that inducing two (very) minor explosions in a room full of teenagers and uptight adults is not grounds for removal from the premises, then you are sadly mistaken. No sooner than I can produce an innocent shrug is Coach Sue marching Santana and me out of the gym.

"In some cultures?" she asks sarcastically when we're loading into the car.

"Heard it on the History Channel," I joke. I don't tell her that the scheme actually came from watching Eddie. How, once at the grocery store, he convinced a man that Santana was his handicapped sister. The man carried all of our bags to the car and Eddie didn't have to lift a finger. Deception gets the job done.

It doesn't matter, the reasoning behind. Not when Santana deepens her voice and says, "Dinner at Breadstix—twenty dollars. Two tickets for prom—sixty. Watching Puck and Karofsky make total asses of themselves and getting kicked out in the process—priceless." She then reclines her seat, closes both eyes. "Best. Prom. Ever."

"Graduation's coming up," Santana mentions when we're finally in bed and tucked underneath the covers.

I yawn. "Yeeeeaaah."

"Have you given any thought about the future?" she asks. "You know, what comes next?"

I yawn again. Playing social justice vigilante for the evening has wiped me out. "Nooooo," I jokingly say.

"I'm serious, B." I don't respond. Maybe if I lay still enough, she'll think I'm dead. Maybe if I'm dead, she'll quit talking. Santana then says, "Oh, and don't think that I've forgotten about your birthday present. It's still in the works."

My eyes doze, but the reminder of the present alerts my senses. Playing it cool, I say, "Really? You haven't? Because I have."

We remain silent for a few moments, and I think that she's finally going to allow sleep. Eddie is spending the night at Carey's, which means that the apartment is the most peaceful it's been in a long time. Quiet. And with my recent schedule at the community center, quiet is certainly nice. Sleep is now the only concern.

That is, until Santana rolls onto her stomach, smiling as she looks directly into my eyes. The girl sure has been smiling a lot tonight. "Tell me a story," she says, rays of moonlight highlighting her face. "Any story at all."

"I'm kind of tapped out on stories," I say, surrendering the notion of resting up for tomorrow. "Told you all of my good ones in the hospital."

Santana nudges my shoulder playfully. "I was out like a light."

"And a pretty deadbeat conversational light, at that," I joke.

She groans and throws an arm over my stomach. I give in after an assault of tickles to my side, beginning on a story that I've yet to grasp the meaning behind. Maybe telling it will shed some light on the overarching message. And so I dive in, explicitly uncovering each detail of my nightmare from the hospital. Seeing the different faces. My own, included. The gun. The bright flashes. Not knowing what came after each. At its end, Santana shakes her head and says, "No way. Too depressing."

I rack my brain for anything else. Something from my childhood, perhaps. Even though she knows all of those, too. "Have I ever told you the one about two princesses that fell in love?" Santana grins, gently shaking her head. I go into great detail with this, as well. With everything from dress color to the second princess's favorite ice cream flavor. How they fell victim to forbidden love. How the first princess was torn between her family and the other princess. How, in the end, their feelings for each other were all that mattered. "The second princess forgave the first, went to the ball with her, and they lived happily ever after."

"Time out," she says. "Did the second princess get laid after the ball or not? I need details, woman."

"Unfortunately, both princesses had important matters to tend to the next day and needed their rest."

Santana cocks her eyebrow. "But it's, like, standard protocol for any major high school event," she says. "Besides, the physical therapy said that I would eventually need to quit resting and build some stamina. And this princess has the perfect workout in mind, but it's a two-person endeavor."

"Oh, because you and I are _soooo _much alike every other high school student we know," I tease. "We've been on good terms for all of a week and you're already trying to score?"

She then scoffs in fake offense. "I'm working on borrowed time, here. Who knows when another gun-toting crazy will show up and take me for good?"

"And now you're trying to _guilt_ your way into my pants?" I ask.

Santana leans over and kisses my cheek, beaming like a fool. "Is it working?" she jokes.

I'm forced to stifle a laugh. "You're such a romantic, Santana Lopez. And just like a horny teenage boy."

Santana giggles in return, lifting up and hovering dangerously close to my face. She then kisses me again. Softly at first. Then harder. With more fervor than anyone fresh from an injury should ever exert. So, when a hand snakes underneath my shirt and around my back, holding me closer, I pull away. Santana isn't discouraged, however, for she places both lips to my neck. Gentler than before, the wet pecks make their way to my jaw. Then just under my ear. "Santana," I breathe when she moves to the other side. "You need rest."

She quits for a moment, eyes pleading with me. "I said 'plenty' in the godforsaken hospital, didn't I? And I'm a woman of my word, Ms. Pierce." The Latina then shifts from desperation to giggling hysterically at her own remark.

"And that's what I love about you. Tomorrow's a busy day, though," I insist, undeterred by unorthodox charm. "We've got to pick Eddie up. And you have physical therapy. And your meeting. And I have work." There are probably a million other items that I could add to the list.

Santana's expression softens with each obligation that presents itself. By the end of my rambling, she's grinning from ear to ear. Much like when I first woke up to her in the hospital. "Hey," she coos, brushing my hair away. "We've got tonight. Who even needs tomorrow?"

A month ago, if I could have imagined being in this moment with my best friend, I wouldn't have listened for one second. If I could have pictured how much more beautiful she'd be in a t-shirt and shorts than prom attire, I would've thought it to be a cruel trick. If I could have possibly fathomed how I would never feel safer than in the arms of this damaged girl, I wouldn't have believed it. I guess that there are plenty of things I wish I'd known before learning of their consequences.

Fortunately enough, right now has nothing to do with one month ago. It has nothing to do with the month before or the one before that. Much like our quickly-conceived fairytale, all that matters is how we feel in this very instant.

And with this realization, staring deeply into the love of my life's mesmerizing brown eyes, I sigh and give yet another unmistakable nod of my head.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__**It's painfully difficult to write decent douchebaggery without sounding too cliche. So bear with me, guys. Oh, and if anyone proceeds to make**__**fun**** of me for using lyrics from "We've Got Tonight" by Bob Seger, I will light myself on fire. (It was actually one of my favorite covers from the show. Lol.)**_

**LoneGambit: It never fails that one of your reviews shows up in my inbox and it's BOOM, I'm reading that. Lol. I honored, likewise, to have your lovely input on most chapters. And please, never doubt my ability to fuck shit up a final time. Lol. (Truthfully, I've got a small handful of chapters in mind, and it should then wind down.) As always, many thanks for taking the time to read and review.**

**StephaniieC: I'm not going to ask why, lol. I'm merely going to shame you for skipping ahead. Haha. Death most certainly has this odd ability to change people. As always, it's great seeing you pop up in the reviews. Many thanks.**

**Guest: "Naughty" is such a weird word, but I'm going to take it as a compliment. Lol. Many thanks.**

**Lanter: Your one-sentence review managed to make me smile, too. I thank you for that.**

**CASSONDRA (Guest): YES I'M GOING TO LET THEM AND YES SHE LOVES HRE ALL IS WELL IN THE WORLD. (As always, I thank you for lovely reviews that make me smile.)**

**JJLives: Like I said, it's not my responsibility to kill a character that isn't of my creation. Lol. I apologize for scaring you, and I'm happy that someone caught on to the "love tap". It only seemed right. Thank you so very much for the kind words.**

**misssnodgrass: No heartburn? I must be doing something wrong. Lol. I'm glad you felt it to be great, because I most certainly did. I also find your lovely words to be great. Thanks a bunch.**

**Channy2425: Lol.**

**luceroadorada: No, my friend. You're the brilliant one. Lol, and thank you for the amazing review.**

**insertnameherex: NO, I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH. As far as all being well on the home front- well, who am I to deny? Especially after the bullshit that you guys have endured? Lol. As always, I thank you.**

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**anongurl (Guest): Aaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnndddd you are most certainly correct. Many thanks.**


	23. Chapter 23

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

_**Side Note: I forgot to give credit for a song used in the last chapter. "If Tonight Is My Last" by Laura Izibor.**_

* * *

"I can put the shirt back on," Santana whines for a third time, sitting on top of me in nothing but a bra and shorts.

I shake my head. Too late. The damage has been done. The mood killed. Moments ago, things were running so smoothly. Hot and heavy. Heavenly. Everything that I imagined our next time together would be. But then she pulled her shirt off and the wound stared back at me. "Nope," I insist. "I've already looked. It's all white and oozy. I had no idea it would be _that _disgusting."

"_That_ means it's healing, you ass."

My eyes are now fixated on the scab. Where it was previously concealed underneath a white bandage at the hospital, the physical therapist has now ordered that it remain uncovered. To breathe or something. But all I can focus on his how grotesque it looks. So puffy and… ugh. "Still makes me want to throw up," I say.

Santana rolls off of me, groaning. She hits the bed with a plop, extending both hands to her sides. Then to her face, groaning louder this time. "Two words, Brittany. Blue balls."

I laugh at her fluster. "Doesn't that only apply to guys?"

She peeks from behind the mask. "And logic doesn't apply to Lopez."

"Logically, that is the nastiest thing I've ever seen," I chuckle. "And I used to clean out Lord Tubbington's litter box."

She huffs and curls up on her side, facing the door. Away from me. "This is bullying, and I will not stand for it." I try draping an arm over her hip, but she rolls farther away, avoiding my touch.

"Which is a really good thing, because you can barely crawl out of bed in the morning."

A hand reaches behind and smacks my arm. I snort in laughing this time. Like I said, everything had been running so smoothly. She didn't even seem to be hurt, moving so fluidly. Then it happened. Boom. Off went the shirt and the rest is a blur. I instantly lost any and all nerve.

When morning comes, Santana's ego is clearly still damaged. And it's still funny. I sit on the counter as she struggles in making coffee. Either the pot has gained weight or her strength isn't built up enough. Regardless, Santana can't lift the container more than a couple of inches. Even with all of her bodyweight propped against the counter. When I reach to help, she tugs away with a pout.

I use a cup from the sink to fill to the coffee maker's upper portion. And when Santana uprights to protest, I pull her close. "I'm still upset about earlier. Fucking nasty ass scab, cockblocking the good people of Ohio" she breathes, standing in between my legs, which I instantly lock around her back.

"_You?_ Upset about something? I find that hard to believe," I say with a fake gasp. And since logic no longer applies to Lopez, I don't address the last tidbit. Instead, when she falls back into sulking, I take her face into my hands, forcing the girl to look up. "Hey," I whisper. "It's only kind of nasty. Nothing like watching Finn and Rachel make out. Promise."

Santana barely cracks a smile before placing both lips to mine. I feel her arms push hard against the counter, propelling her upward. When two hands shift and lay hold to my thighs, Santana pulls away, shaking her head. "You're starting something that you aren't prepared to finish," she says.

I gasp again, tightening my legs. This time, I move in. That is, until someone clears their throat. "Jeeeeez, man. Get a room."

My body freezes as Santana ducks under my arm, peeking into the living room. Eddie walks into the kitchen, opening then closing the refrigerator. He takes a long swig of water before deadpanning, "Carey dropped me off. Something about an interview." Another swig. "Must have figured you two would've taken care of _that_ last night."

Santana groans and leans her forehead onto my shoulder, waving a hand behind. "_Thank _you." She then looks to me. "See? Even he gets it."

"Then _he_ can take you to therapy," I tease, placing a final quick peck to her forehead before jumping down.

* * *

_Stop. Fast forward two days. Play. _Things are starting to get a little weird around here. Like "throw this day in a strait jacket and stuff it in a padded cell" weird. Scary movie weird. _Yes, Mr. Hitchcock? _I think. _Brittany Pierce speakin. I've got an idea for your next project. Less vicious, man-eating birds, but a suitable amount of mind-fuckery. _

Why? Because Santana is throwing herself into physical therapy with the upmost verve, sometimes staying afterwards just to get extra work in. Even doing some exercises at the apartment.

And today, when she doesn't show for lunch, uneasiness sets in. It's the only time we have together during school, and she's usually insistent on making the meeting. So I forgo eating and venture from the cafeteria, consider checking Ms. Pillsbury's office first, mainly because Santana spent so much time there earlier this year. But she's not. In fact, as I'm leaving to check elsewhere, my eyes cut through the glass door and just down the hallway. Santana is leaving Coach Sue's office. I hold my tongue well into the evening.

Life persists in getting odder by the minute, particularly this evening when Santana invites Eddie to help her prepare dinner. Moments earlier she mentioned teaching him some of her abuela's recipes. And when Eddie comments on her technique, saying, "You're doing it wrong," Santana doesn't retaliate.

Instead, she says, "Seems that I am."

There is only small talk at the table, most of which Eddie avoids. He, like Santana, has begun acting especially shady. Detached from things that he used to take great interest in. I'm beginning to think that they're working together in some plot against me. The birthday present I was promised so long ago, maybe. The very one that Santana said was in the works.

After we eat, Santana says that she'll be walking the leftovers to Carey's apartment. "I'll be fine," she says when I offer to assist. "It's just across the way. No big deal."

I tend to the dishes. Eddie aimlessly hangs around the kitchen, so I employ his help. "Is Santana intentionally keeping something from me? You know, a surprise of some sort?"

With both hands submerged in a vat of soapy water, Eddie effortlessly shrugs. "If you're asking for hints regarding the mentioned birthday present—you know, before Santana got shot—I have no clue."

"Oh, come on," I whine, ignoring the sarcastic dig. "I'll do the same for your birthday." But he doesn't mutter a word, now rinsing out a bowl. I've learned that silence is his primary method for answering, so I finish with, "Unless you don't know when that is, either."

The boy shakes his head, seemingly distracted by the remark. "Maybe," he whispers, not finishing the thought aloud. Instead, a faint smile forms on his face as he asks, "Would it be cool if stepped outside for a minute? I'll be right back."

Considering that the sun is still out, I nod. And when he dries his hands and darts through the door, I'm afforded the quiet thinking time cleaning usually permits. How Santana is acting so withdrawn, and Eddie the same. And though I may not know a lot about anything, there are certain undeniable laws of the universe that I'm fully aware of.

Firstly, we all must die. Dad was first. Lord Tubbington second. Bernadette third. Eventually, the rest of us shall follow. Secondly, Santana always comes back. I learned this as a young child, and will forever believe it to be true. Third and lastly, Lopezs are not off-the-cuff people. There is not one impulsive bone in their bodies. Each does things for specific reason, whether it makes sense to onlookers or not.

I think of Santana in physical therapy. Sneaking out of Sue's office. A sudden change in personality when it comes to handling Eddie. All of it being meticulously planned. Though I don't suppose that motives hold any validity without results.

Long after both Eddie and Santana return, mental deciphering still in play, a single question plagues my thoughts. _Just what is Santana up to?_

* * *

In the middle of the night, I'm woken with a start. Santana is, too, it seems, for she wiggles around the bed with a groan. Muffled howls of terror filter in from the living room. Shrill cries that permeate a blissful rest. When the noises are recognizable, both of our bodies relax.

I check my phone. It's only been two hours since I've fallen asleep. Santana then mutters groggily, "It's your turn."

"I did it last night," I return just as sleepily.

She halfway rolls over, balled fist resting atop an open palm. I do the same through lidded eyes. _Pop, pop, pop_. Santana groans, getting up and wandering into the living room. Her voice is gentle in waking Eddie from his night terrors. Just like every other night when she gets up only to ease him back to sleep.

They return and Eddie crawls in between the both of us. Heavy breaths fill the air, and eventually, one by one, Santana and Eddie drift off into another peaceful sleep.

I soon follow suit, but not before silently reveling I BSP's Guide to the Universe Number Four: When it comes to the occasional game of Rock-Paper-Scissors, Santana always picks rock.

* * *

The next afternoon, after watching Santana sneak from Coach Sue's office for the third time this week, she catches up with me by our lockers. And after a brief exchange, she persists in following me into the choir room. No one realizes as she pulls Mr. Schuester to the side, whispering with him.

In a moment, he extends a hand, giving her the floor. I tensely wait from the back row. In the middle, Quinn does the same. "I know what I initially said at prom," she begins with a shaky voice. "But after some… convincing, I've decided to help out. If the offer still stands."

Mr. Schuester nods dumbly from the white board. "Of course it does."

"Great," Santana says uneasily. Like she doesn't mean a single word. "Only on two conditions, though. Nobody's parents bitch about my being here, and no sympathy over what happened."

"Not what exactly what I had in mind," Rachel mumbles under her breath.

But Mr. Schuester speaks for the class when he grins and says, "Deal and deal."

It's a slow process, walking Santana through the routine. But the physical therapy must be working, because she only has to take two breaks.

Afterwards, when we're safely in the hallway, I force a deep-breathed muster of courage. To address her apprehension from before. Demand the whys of this past week. _Just go for it, Brittany. What's the worst that can possibly happen? _And so I do. "What are you playing at, Santana? What's your angle with all of this nonsense?"

She stops and gives me the same look as when I mentioned releasing the sex tape that we made sophomore year. Head craned to the side, eyebrow arched. (She's probably still bitter about Lord Tubbington stealing the show with his household chore antics.) But I only ever considered releasing the thing to help make her dreams a reality. Just like every other celebrity. Though it doesn't really seem like Santana has many dreams anymore.

Anyway, she finally breathes, "Figured you'd be a little more excited," before resuming at quickened pace.

In one breath I respond, "I'm only happy when you're happy, and something about this isn't right. So tell me what's going on."

"Everything's golden," she says in quickly building annoyance.

I grab hold of her arm, stifling all advances. "Then why the sudden drastic change of heart? Therapy, Eddie, and now this?"

"Not now, B," she snaps. "Not here." I go to say something else, but she cuts me off with a quick, "Later."

* * *

Later never comes. Instead, every opportune moment is replaced with the assurance of a new one. It's disheartening, thinking of whatever she's so clearly keeping from me. Knowing that when the information is finally disclosed, it will all come crashing down at once.

Eddie begins making his trips twice daily. Once in the morning; once after dinner. I dare to peek through the window at where he goes, only to find him frantically searching the mail station across the courtyard. Returning as disappointed as ever each time. He mumbles excitedly to himself but further detaches from regular conversations. Giving one-word replies at most.

Tonight, when I return from a three-hour stint at the community center, Santana is propped up on the couch, thumbing through an old wooden box. The one filled with all of my letters. Her face is flush; drained of all color. I halfway expect tears, much like when she would stay up all night reading them for the first time. When I finally clear my throat, breaking her fixation on the reddened piece of paper, Santana holds it up. "You knew. Even when I avoided you like the plague, you knew that we'd eventually wind up right here. Together."

"Why aren't you in bed?" is all that I can say.

Santana's face remains solemn. Forehead creased. "Couldn't sleep."

I leave her to it, still agitated by from being avoided all week. There's no reason for anyone to sneak around, ignore my questions, and then expect all to be well. Not even Santana.

In the bedroom, an itch hits me. Not an itch from alcohol, like I used to experience, but more of the gut feeling Dad used to warn me about. My hands develop a mind of their own, quietly rummaging through various stash spots. Looking for nothing in particular. But when I stumble into the nightstand drawer, finding a single sleeve of rectangular paper, I tense up.

It's like Susan used to say, "Nobody snoops for snooping's sake. Don't go prying if you're worried about what you'll find." I think back to Dr. Lopez's office. Asking around when I was first looking for Santana. I've only ever wanted answers, and a great portion of the time, those answers haven't been the most ideal. Is this scrap of mail the answer I've been subconsciously seeking? Well, we're about to find out.

I march into the living room, waving it in front of Santana's still-pale face. "I take it that now is later," I spit, to which she nods. We quietly venture into the bedroom, sure not to wake up Eddie who is sprawled out asleep in his cardboard sanctuary. It's crumbling with each night that he spends thrashing about because of nightmares.

I settle onto the bed, but Santana keeps standing. Clutching tightly onto the box before finally setting it down. "I thought we agreed, Santana. No more secrets." She nods again, eyes slowly beginning to refill with life at my annoyance. "Maybe you don't have an angle; I get that. But something's the matter." I wave the letter. "And _this. _This isn't like the new you. Something's wrong," I say.

Eddie's name is in the rectangle's center. On the back flap, a return address is scrawled loosely. From a post office in Illinois. There is no name. No one to properly shame for throwing my best friend so off kilter. No one to blame for the argument I'm dreading.

Santana takes a strangled breath before nodding a final time. "We did," she admits ashamedly. "I've just been trying to figure out how to appropriately address the situation before bringing it up." Santana places a hand onto the box again, sighing and closing her eyes. "I haven't shown him."

"Have you tried opening it?"

Her eyes pop open at the remark. "Ha!" she scoffs. "_That's _against the law and I'm no dumbass." I recognize the defensive sarcasm. It's the only protection she's consistently used.

"Is this why you've been sneaking around? Visiting Sue's office at lunch? Avoiding me?"

Santana's face sinks at the accusation. At being caught. "What? No. No, it's not." She shakes her head furiously. "Okay, maybe it is. I guess I've just been convinced that the world's been working against me in some elaborate ploy, and if I made everything like it used to be, our lives would return to normal. That the letter might magically disappear, I guess."

The only way that her plan would ever work is with the use of a time machine. Something I've learned is impossible to build. It doesn't explain being so thrown by a measly piece of paper, though. "Earlier," she continues, voice cracking, "we were arguing about Lord knows what. Then he just threw in this comment about his parents. It was totally out of the blue and I froze. What if it's from them?"

"Our hands are kind of tied in that respect, Santana," I say, immediately regretting doing so.

She takes a deep breath, batting both eyes and looking out the window. "You're right. We have no say in the matter. Maybe all of this wasn't a good idea."

"I do believe you're talking crazy, Ms. Lopez," I half-heartedly tease, trying to make light of her nervousness. "Or he could just have a pen pal. Kids these days. Writing letters to their homeless friends and what not."

Santana stiffens her features, not giving into the smile that I wish she would. "I'm being serious, Brittany. I know what I said at the hospital, but…" her voice trails before picking back up. "We have other options. Have you considered an alternative?"

"What?" I ask too quickly and defensively. "The same 'alternative' you fought like hell to get me out of? Pawning him off on someone else? Throwing him into a lonely foster system and crossing our fingers? Wait, I've got it. We can drop him on the side of the interstate with a sign. Someone's bound to stop." My face grows hot in the rant. At what Santana's insinuating. At the very thought of Eddie being anywhere but here.

"My parents would probably take him. Lord knows they'd love a second go at raising a child," she says, defeated.

This isn't the same doped-up Santana from before. This much is true. But it is the very Santana I've known for ten years. The one who wouldn't give up on something—or someone—so easily. Discovering her motives has been the primary goal, yes, but I've quickly learned that motives aren't shit without action. And by the time that action is taken, the driving forces won't matter. It's all too confusing, especially when the one person I regularly seek clarity from is no longer on my side. In a desperate plea, I say, "No. No we can't."

"Why, Brittany?" she asks in earnest. "Why is it _so_ imperative that Eddie stay with us?" _Stop. Cue raised voices. Play._

Whereas she's been running solely on motivation, I've been doing nothing but taking continuous action in regards to Eddie. Not once have I stepped back to ponder the why of my insistence. And now that Santana and this letter are holding a mirror to our situation, the inevitable lurks despite all effort to repress it. _Because I was in his position once. Because it hurts like hell, saying goodbye to people. Because he's the closest link I have to my vanishing act of a mother._

The last realization slaps me square across the face. Shame. Guilt. All of it returns in an instant. So much so that I cannot formulate a decent argument. So much so that I cannot be openly honest. Instead, I merely say, "It just is."

Santana huffs loudly at the feeble rationale. "We're eighteen-years-old, B. This stuff, it's much too difficult for people in our position."

"And he's eleven," I insist, now on the verge of tears. "We're all he has. Everyone he previously had is gone. If he even had anybody, at that. You were on my side when there was nowhere for me to go, and now we should be on his. Like I said before, Eddie doesn't need the moon. He just needs someone to stick around." It's all desperate rambling. Quick talking in an attempt to suppress the cries that wish to choke free. The heat returns to my cheeks. Anger at the sudden flip-flop in Santana's feelings. "Why is it so imperative that we get rid of him all of a sudden? Because of one stupid letter?" I then ask.

This time, Santana looks as if she's the one who might cry. A second passes. Then a minute. "I'm terrified," she finally whispers in admittance, dropping onto the bed, face in hands. Much like the other day. "What if his parents are suddenly trying to find him? What if he starts asking questions about _them_? Oh, God." I inch closer, placing my hand on her shoulder in a way just softer than that of a football coach. "It was hard enough explaining Susan to you. How am I supposed to tell a kid that his own flesh and blood, who had no time to love him before, now feel like doing so? I'm not equipped to handle _those _kinds of questions. Hell, we can't even make it through breakfast without fighting."

I'm beginning to understand her fears. The apprehension. It's not like either of us have the parents to model our efforts after. And the doubts that fill your head- the what ifs- they're enough to break a person. "You're going to answer them just as you did with me," I softly assure. "It's okay to be freaked out, you know. I most certainly am."

"Did I mention that we can't make it through breakfast without fighting?" she breathes. It's less directed at me and more toward herself.

Her palms are open now, so I take the opportunity to begin scribbling in the left. Outlining the contours in between each finger. "Did I mention that I love you so very much, and will be here to help every step of the way? _And_ that I have full faith in whatever you say?" Only now does Santana crack a smile, and we both lay back, staring at the ceiling.

Sometimes I wish that I could read her mind in moments like these. Pick at the minute details. Piece together each and try to pinpoint exactly what makes her more capable of sorting through the hard stuff. And simultaneously what makes her so vulnerable to the minuscule.

In the silence that follows, I retrieve the old box of letters. And in the hours that pass, we sit on the bed, giggling at the goofy stuff I wrote so long ago.

* * *

Over the next few days, Santana seems in lighter spirits, like a crushing weight has been lifted since our conversation. Like she's truly starting to believe that our situation is manageable. Tonight, she drops me off at the community center with her own errands to run. "We'll talk to him tonight," she promises with a smile. And after an early-ending shift, I quickly learn of these mysterious errands.

Wall-to-wall, in every nook and cranny, on every open surface, is a picture of the gunshot wound. In all of its oozy, red-white glory. They must have cost a small fortune to develop, because they're _everywhere._

Santana is posted up on the couch, beaming with pride.

"Is this some sick form of revenge?" I ask with clenched-shut eyes.

She laughs and changes the channel. "A Lopez never forgets."

I keep them shut and feel my way across the living room, nearly falling on top of Santana in the process. We curl up and pop in a movie, purely because cable is expensive and watching basic channels gets boring after a while. Even for poor people.

"Eddie didn't want to hang out with us?" I ask shortly into the film. "Probably creeped out by the new decorum."

She giggles when I feign a shudder. "I thought you were going to get him from Carey's later?"

"And I thought you were picking him up earlier."

Santana moves my head from her lap, hurrying to the counter for her cellphone. "No worries. He's just over at Carey's. I'll just let her know that we're headed over." Pause. Ringing. "Go ahead and tell Eddie to gather his stuff. We're coming by," she says into the phone. Another pause. Her face then twists as she says, "No. We did not tell him to walk over alone."

There's more talking on Carey's end, but Santana isn't listening anymore. Instead, she shuffles down the hallway and into our bedroom. A commotion ensues. Sounds of furniture being knocked about. Worried that she might have fallen, I dart back.

She's opening drawers and slamming them shut. The nightstand. The dresser. Clothes fly through the air. This continues for a minute until she pauses, both hands pressed to her face. "Get dressed," Santana finally chokes out.

"What happened?" But she's now ignoring me, busy with looking again. For what, I don't know. As Santana rushes down the hallway and nears the front door, I grab hold of her arm, yanking. "Santana, what's the matter?"

Her face is expressionless. Deadened by whatever's just happened. "The letter," she begins, momentarily snapping from the trance. It sounds as if my best friend is choking on each word. "Eddie. The letter addressed to him."

Now, a single tear rolls down her cheek. "It's fucking gone."

* * *

**Author's Note:**** All right, guys. I know that this chapter doesn't hold the detailed unfolding as the others. Bear with me, please. I've been trying to balance classes and a case of pneumonia this past week. The next update will come sooner, and it will definitely have answers to whatever questions may arise. (I also know that the quality is somewhat lacking, but pneumonia, right?) And as always, I thank you all for sticking around.**

**JJLives: It's good enough for me. Lol.**

**insertnameherex: Finally, right? Lol. I do thank you for the kind words.**

** luceroadorada: Does a happy dance because of your lovely review.**

**StephaniieC: Haha. I certainly adore it as well. And as always, thanks for the review.**

**LoneGambit: Normally, I would write some elaborate response to your review. Instead, I'm merely going to sit here gushing. Thank you so very much for each of your consistently kind words.**

**Guest: I just love you. Lol.**

**xoxo (Guest): I certainly agree with you in the Eddie respect. I personally enjoy his character, but his presence holds a looming, ambiguous threat to their future. It's tough stuff. But I'm glad to have you back in the reviews. They always make me smile. Many thanks.**

**Guest: Please don't die. Here's your update. Lol.**


	24. Chapter 24

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

* * *

Santana fidgets impatiently, twirling a set of keys around her finger as I look for my shoes. "Forget the shoes, Brittany. We need to get going."

"Maybe one of us should wait," I stop and foolishly suggest. "In case he comes back." Because if Eddie is as much like Santana as I believe, then it'll be his next move.

My best friend snaps a quick "Fine," before slamming the door shut, the apartment walls rippling from her force. I flinch and opt to blindly follow, not even stopping to lock up behind.

Our first stop is at Carey's, where Santana harshly grills her about Eddie. "And you didn't stop to think about _why_ he might be asking you to buy stamps? Or why, on tonight of all nights, we would allow him to walk home _alone_?"

"He's convincing, Santana. So no, I didn't. And is this really the time to be arguing?" Carey snaps back. I quietly shake my head at her. This isn't an argument. Far from it, actually. Santana's wide-set eyes should make that clear. Because bickering is reserved for people who are comfortable. Who actually have a clue. Who aren't scared shitless by the questions they're forced to ask. No, this version of Santana reeks of terror. Like all of her repressed feelings for Eddie are surfacing in one burst of aghast lashing out.

Time is running short, so we don't stick around. Hours soon pass. In a constant string of stopping, getting out, and looking in odd spots. It's incredibly difficult, location someone who has no intention of being found. Even when I was searching for Santana, at least she had places to go. Starting points.

It's pushing one o'clock in the morning when my phone buzzes with an unknown number. I quickly answer, cutting it to speakerphone. "Brittany Pierce?" an eerily recognizable voice asks.

"This is she." Santana pulls over and leans in, eyes narrowed in and focused ahead.

"I'm calling in regard to a young man who's named you as an emergency contact," the voice explains. My heart rate quickens at the _"emergency"_. "He was spotted at the bus station, trying to board without a ticket. He's currently in custody at the Bryant location." Oddly enough, it settles me. He's in trouble, but not hurt.

Santana immediately shifts the vehicle into gear and I say, "We're on our way."

An hour's drive lies ahead, and Santana suggests that I rest my eyes. I try to no avail, on account of her heated Spanish ramblings that last the entire trip. Instead, I do as I would when Mom got drunk and became angry. Slink off into BSP's special world of unicorns and rainbows. Where memories can be warped to my fancy. Where they lie untainted.

I vividly remember running away at the ripe old age of seven. This was back before I knew Santana, so there wasn't anywhere for me to go. But a final destination didn't keep me from filling a small backpack with what seemed essential. After dinner and a half-hour walk, my tiny legs fell weary. The sky grew darker. Passing cars spooked me back in the direction of our house. In a mere thirty minutes, the world started to seem a little bigger.

But I was seven and Eddie's eleven and four years makes a world of difference. The rationale can't be much different, though. Right? After all, in the small pack of seven-year-old necessities, I included my father's wristwatch for good reason. If only to see how long it was before someone came looking.

The letter must have something to do with Eddie's leaving. He must have something to run to. I'm running over all possible scenarios when four wheels finally screech to a halt, jolting me back to reality.

Sitting on an outside bench is Eddie. His eyes are bloodshot, body hunched over in defeat. A small bag in his lap. Two eyes pop open when he sees us and tries rushing over. Two eyes pop wider when one towering figure, a guard or officer of sorts, yanks him back. "He said he wanted to meet me," the boy calls out in a strangled voice. "He said he wanted to meet me."

The other adult is a woman I recognize only from our brief meetings so long ago. The voice on the other end suddenly making sense. "Brittany," Social Worker Angela says tiredly. "Santana."

And much like our other encounters, Santana is the first to chime in, not bothering with formalities. In annoyance, she spits, "Is it necessary that you people be involved in _every-fucking-thing_?" It's been a long, uncomfortable night, so I don't interject.

Angela is at the ready, it seems, for she snidely returns, "Need I point out that it wasn't 'my people' the boy was running from? We spend our times remedying situations like these, Ms. Lopez. Not creating them."

"Eddie. For the love of God, his name is Eddie," Santana growls. "And _Eddie_ will be leaving with us, now. The people he chose to call."

In an instant, she doesn't give anyone the chance to refute her decision. Instead, the Latina grabs hold of the boy's collar, pulling him from the officer and towards our car. I'm blindly following again as Angela calls out, "You'll be hearing from us."

Santana throws a hand up as she grumbles back, "Wouldn't doubt it for a second."

* * *

We peel out and tear off toward Lima once more with Santana driving. Eddie sits in the back seat, two fresh lines of tears slowly creeping down his face. Twenty minutes into the ride, and no one mutters a word. That is, until Santana glares into the rearview mirror and snarls, "No phone call. No note. You had us worried sick."

This is neither the time nor place. We're all in desperate need of sleep. Being grumpy leads to distasteful remarks, so I say, "Santana—"

"I _did _call," Eddie spits back, cutting me off.

"_After_ you get busted doesn't count," Santana returns.

"Santana—"

"You didn't have to come."

"Eddie—"

"Could've told me that four hours ago."

"I didn't need you to come," Eddie continues.

"Oh, because you were handling yourself _so _well."

"Santana—"

"I don't need a lecture, either," he says coolly, arms now crossed, tears nonexistent. For whatever reason, I sense that Eddie's about to try getting underneath Santana's skin. Like he does every other time they fight. And for whatever reason, I'm afraid that he'll succeed in doing so tonight. "And quite frankly, I. Don't. Need. You."

"Eddie—"

Santana sharply cuts the vehicle to a shoulder, slamming on the brakes. Then it's just the three of us, sitting on the side of an Ohio interstate at almost three in the morning. "Then you won't be needing my vehicle, either."

"Santana—"

Eddie doesn't budge. He defiantly repeats, "I don't need you."

"Eddie—"

"Feeling's mutual," Santana cracks. "Now get out."

"Santana—"

"I don't need you."

"Eddie—"

"Yet here I am."

"Santana—"

"Sometimes I think about setting you on fire."

"_Eddie_—"

"You make me want to punch myself in the face."

"_Santana_—"

"Bitch."

"We don't—"

"That's the best you've got?"

"Knock it o—"

"At least I've still got things going for me. At least I'm not washed up," Eddie returns. "At my life isn't one massive pile of shit."

"I said we don—"

Santana turns around, though, cutting me off a final time. She stares coldly into his reddened eyes before calmly saying, "At least my parents love me."

"Hey!" I'm able to interject, initiating a vice grip on the Latina's shoulder and turning her around. I look to Eddie. "You, stop talking." I then look back to a heavily-breathing Santana. "You, shut up and drive."

* * *

Eddie's sound asleep when we finally reach the apartment. I piggy-back him up the stairs and inside, gently laying him on the couch. Santana storms past as quickly as she can, slamming our bedroom door shut. She doesn't budge when I come in, forcing me to crawl over her and into bed.

"You're not being fair," I say.

Into the pillow she breathes, "Life isn't fair."

"You're being irrational."

"And you're being annoying," she breathes again.

I forcefully roll over, exaggerating the process. "Fuck you, Santana."

"Of course."

* * *

_Stop._ Fast forward to two weeks later, where Eddie and Santana haven't so much as sneezed in the other's direction. Each wanders around in the foulest of moods, avoiding each other like the plague. The plague that makes you apologize and act like a compassionate human being for, like, a second.

Eddie's nightmares slowly begin reappearing in full swing, and Santana refuses to get out of bed and assist. Santana's physically therapeutic progress still proves faulty in the occasional everyday task, and Eddie ignores her need for help, often tearing off in the opposite direction.

Minute by minute, the looming silence sucks everything from me. With the in-between moments, life wears down what's left for me to claim. Stubbornness deems me as both the referee and punching bag in their seemingly never-ending grudge match. A referee and punching bag clumped into one very exhausted teenage girl.

Is it possible to be tired of being tired? Because I most certainly am. Of pulling multiple jobs. Janitor at the community center. Housekeeper at the apartment. Nanny to now two children.

Tonight, after cleaning what appears to be a monsoon of dirty liquid in the boy's restroom, the last straw is pulled free. This game is coming to an end. For this unicorn is one misstep away from ripping her horn off and stabbing someone with it.

When I groggily stumble through the front door, the kitchen is the first thing that hits me. Piles and piles of dirty dishes litter the countertops. Stains fill the remaining gaps. "Did you even bother to clean up your mess?" I shout into the living room. Eddie doesn't answer, eyes keeping glued to the television. My blood boils at the indifference. _Strike one. _

Santana is in our bedroom, lounging underneath the comforter. "Have you gotten out of bed today? Done anything at all?" She doesn't answer me, either, but merely grunts and rolls over. _Strike two._

In the hallway, I yell, "Has anyone done anything remotely productive today?!" More silence. _Strike motherfucking three._

"Living room. _Now_," I spit, ripping the covers from Santana's body. I storm into the den, reaching behind our television set and ripping its cord from the socket. Eddie begins to squeak a protest when I throw a silencing finger into the air. Within seconds, Santana meanders in.

"Sit," I command, and she does. Their attention locks onto me. "_Two weeks._ It's been fourteen fucking days, and you two are still pissing and moaning about God knows what." Both pairs of eyes widen. "Since you both want to be bums, you can bum around together. Right here, on the couch. And no one's moving until you've made amends. I don't care if it takes all night, or another two weeks. The apartment is far too small for this kind of internal bleeding. Get your shit together, soldiers." And in a span of eight seconds, I've managed to go from pissed off soccer mom, to football coach, to platoon leader.

Eddie is the first to pipe up. "But she—"

"I don't care," I snap. "'But she' nothing. She was worried sick. I was worried. You can't just take off on some wild goose chase and not tell anyone." Santana knows better than Eddie, but her silence does nothing to thwart off my wrath. "And _you_," I sneer, tearing my eyes into hers. "The universe isn't working against you, Santana. So drop the act. For Christ's sakes, you're eighteen-years-old. Start acting like it."

The sounds of my footsteps are all to be heard. I flop into bed, no longer tired but fuming, and punch Santana's pillow with what energy my muscles still possess. In the hours that pass, exhaustion nestles itself back into my bones and sleep then comes.

When morning rolls around, Eddie and Santana are still glued to the couch. I doubt that any progress was made after last night, for Santana is fast asleep and snoring. She looks uncomfortable; feet propped up on the coffee table, arms crossed, and head leaned back. Eddie mimics her stature, curled up and leaning against Santana's shoulder. _Oh well,_ I think. _Serves them right._

Only when I'm about to leave for school does Santana rustle awake, shrugging Eddie's head off. "I'm getting couch sores, Brittany. This has to be illegal."

"Have you apologized yet?" I respond, feeling slightly cooled off after last night's meltdown. Santana answers in not doing so. "Then it's a negative, Ghost Rider. You're staying put until peace has been restored."

She merely groans. "He started it."

"And you're supposed to finish. Be the bigger person and all that jazz," I dismiss. Eddie then yawns himself awake, immediately rolling his eyes at seeing Santana. I give him the same opportunity. "Is there anything you'd like to say to Santana?"

"I still don't need you," he instantly cracks.

All is far from quiet on the Lopez-Pierce-(insert unknown biological last name here) front. Because Santana reacts with a snide, "Likewise, asshole," and then I'm out the door.

* * *

There isn't a doubt in my mind that they will obey the rules while I'm away. They're far too competitive. Too fixated on waiting for the other to slip up. Instead, when I return to the apartment, it's usually to complaints and whining. Mostly about domestic stuff. "I'm starving," Eddie says as I prepare for yet another day at school.

Tossing a box of uncooked macaroni at the couch, I say, "Figure it out." He then proceeds to throw pieces of the food into a sleeping Santana's open mouth.

After the third day of their stand-off, (well, sit-off) I return to an empty apartment. On the counter, a small scrap of paper reads: _Gone out. The kid's with me. Be back later._ A sigh of relief floods through my body.

I should use the time to slave over the warzone that is our kitchen. I should be cleaning dishes in a vat of soapy water. I should be wiping down counters. I should be sweeping. I am not doing any of those things, however. Instead of handling adult matters, (because adult matters result in BSP meltdowns) I do the one thing that makes sense in times of crisis. Constructing a paper grocery bag mask and fending off invisible villains that lurk around the apartment just happens to be that thing.

And this plays out as a great idea until voices surface from behind the front door. I freeze and listen as Eddie whispers, "No, you do it."

"Just look inside," Santana whispers back.

I peek through the small kitchen opening as a head pokes through the door before saying, "The coast is clear." He then wanders inside, a piece of string connecting his belt loop to Santana's hand. I duck to the ground, returning the mask to my head. Which is a particularly difficult task when you also have forks taped to the inside each of finger. "How long do I have to wear this?" Eddie asks from the den.

"Until you learn that running away is a no bueno," Santana quickly dismisses. When she rounds the corner, the Latina jumps back, startled and blowing my cover. Her face contorts painfully before softening. "Step away from the silverware drawer," she jokes, taking on the tone of someone who has their own cookbook dedicated to fried food. Both hands are in the air. "Take whatever you want. Just please, don't harm the spoons."

Slightly embarrassed, I begin standing up and removing the makeshift claws when Santana shoves me back down. Grabbing a pair of scissors and bag from the counter, she joins me on the floor, quickly cutting out her own mask. "Bad guy, two o'clock," she whispers, forcing the bag over brunette hair. I play along, sliding across the tile and barely poking around the corner. Eddie is exiting the bathroom, absent-mindedly fumbling with the string. Returning to Santana's side, I nod. "Okay. On the count of three."

_One… Two… Three. _We're then slipping and sliding into the living room, tackling a very surprised Eddie. In a flash, Santana has his arms pinned to the ground. I'm sitting on his stomach. Lifting my mask, I ask, "What do you say? Tickle fight or tickle fight?"

Santana mulls it over for a moment before twisting her lips and saying, "Tickle fight."

The next five minutes are filled with eleven-year-old pleas for help. Eddie twists and turns under our fingers, eventually laughing to the point of breathlessness. Only when his face is a dark shade of Crayon red do we stop. I've been giggling the entire time, too. And God, does it feel good.

Eddie slumps off toward the bedroom, muttering under his breath. "Kids these days," Santana says, picking up the aftermath of our tickle assault. A lamp and pile of magazines were caught up in the tussle. "No tolerance whatsoever."

I laugh. "Attacking a person sure does go a long way to smooth things over."

With this, Santana slowly places a handful of magazines down and cocks her eyebrow at me. Running would probably be a good choice. But the thought doesn't even have time to process before I'm wrestled to the ground, arms clamped underneath two legs. "What do you say, Brittany?" she taunts, slowly running a finger over my chest. "Tickle fight or tickle fight?"

Optimistically, I mutter, "Neither?"

"But this is the last stop on the Santana Lopez Apology Train," she insists. "I do believe that something must be done." I sigh in defeat and clench my eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable. Surprisingly enough, a slobbery kiss is placed to my nose. "Sorry for acting like an immature ass," she breathes.

Only now do I open my eyes. "Yeah, me too. So, uhh. Un-fuck you, I guess."

Santana giggles, lifting her leg and extending a pinkie. "Friends that talk with their mouths super close again?" I allow a smile and nod, taking hers into mine.

* * *

In the middle of the night, I'm tossing and turning. Mainly because Santana lies next to me, propped up against the headboard with a small flashlight in between her teeth. Mulling over a stack of creased papers. "Can't the grown-up stuff wait until morning?" I whine. Turning over, I take a peek at what dominates her attention. The documents look official, like the ones that often cluttered Dr. Lopez's office desk.

Taking the flashlight from her mouth, I flash the light into Santana's face. She squints and throws a hand up. "Woah. Guns down, B. You're blinding me."

"Then you'll have to love me for more than my stunning looks," I joke. When she doesn't laugh, but begins rubbing the bridge of her nose, I ask, "Care to explain?"

"Not necessarily," she grunts. "It's all one big headache, really."

"Santana."

She huffs, snatching the flashlight away and saying, "All right, all right. But you can't speak until I've finished. Agreed?" I nod.

Evidently, Santana and Eddie's afternoon escapade consisted of more than just crappy Chinese food. They decided to reconcile. Short and to the point. Nothing too drawn out. Suited to their style, really. Santana then made a point of addressing Angela's threat from earlier and quickly phoned in to schedule an appointment.

According to her reenactment, the social worker was cordial and eager to help. No blood was shed. She then said that despite our young age, the late-night voyage to pick Eddie up was proof enough of our capabilities as caretakers. Especially in learning that he wasn't, in fact, necessarily running away from us. The only catch, however, is that he isn't legally a ward of the state. Particularly because Eddie's parents aren't dead, regardless of whether or not they were present figures in his life.

She pauses to make sure that I'm following. I nod, regretting ever having turned over. But considering Mr. and Mrs. Schmultz's D.O.A nature, (Santana takes a moment to point out how unfortunate Eddie's legal last name is) they probably wouldn't make a stink of signing him over to us. It wouldn't be anything permanent or official, but their consent would basically say that we couldn't be arrested for having Eddie at the apartment.

When it seems as though she's finished talking, I eagerly ask, "And the letter? Did he let you read it?"

Santana nods. "It was from an uncle in Illinois. Father's brother. Said they have some family reunion in Kentucky in a couple of weeks. Said he wouldn't mind meeting Eddie. I'm going to make some calls in the morning. See what I can find out," she finishes.

"That's one hell of a headache," I eventually breathe.

She folds the papers and tosses them from the bed. "Something like that. But getting their signatures buys me some time, so I figure it's worth a shot."

"Buy _you_ time? Already breaking up the dynamic duo, huh?" I ask. "What a shame. Our future of crime-fighting looked so bright."

"Don't you worry about that," she chuckles, clicking the light off. Santana then leans over and gives me a chaste kiss. "Go back to sleep. I'll take care of everything."

* * *

The next morning is an early one, filled with Eddie's complaints that trickle into the bedroom. "My arms are tired," he whines, scratching at the string that remains connected to his pants. The coffee table has been moved and he stands in front of the couch, extending a piece of paper. What catches my eye, though, is the bag that once belonged to amateur vigilantes. Now, with freshly trimmed eye and mouth holes, it sits atop the boy's head. Written across the top in bold, black marker, it reads: _I Shall Not Run Away_.

Santana runs her finger along a printed line, absently saying, "Then it's going to be a long two weeks." I should've known that apologizing and hugging it out wouldn't be the Latina's chosen form of reconciliation. Well, at least she's finding a way to rehearse.

When she hunches over and squints through two lenses, I say, "You should wear glasses more often." Santana then blushes and removes them. "And Eddie, that bag really brings out the color of your shoulders." He grunts. "I take it that you won't be at school today, either?"

Santana shakes her head and returns the glasses. "Too many things to do. Phone calls to make. Meetings with abandoning parents to set up. You know, the fun stuff."

"Then I'll stay and help," I offer.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you cannot do that," she says, not looking away from the sheet music. "Operation Finally Give Brittany Her Birthday Present is officially underway. Go to Sue's office as soon as you get there. She'll show you where to go."

"Forgive me for not being in the most gift-receiving mood," I protest. "But I have as much input as the rest of you. I'm staying."

Santana doesn't respond. Instead, she cuts her eyes to Eddie and points a thumb in my direction. He groans loudly before reciting in robot fashion, "Santana Lopez's judgment is not to be questioned. Her word law and therefore final. In this apartment, we play by her rules." He takes a deep breath. "All decisions made are for the betterment of the household, especially in regards to one Brittany Pierce and Eddie UglyLastName, and should be treated as so. Except on the rare occasion that Brittany flips her shit and goes bat-shit crazy."

When he finishes, Santana cocks an eyebrow. "And?" He shakes his head, to which she grabs the string and gives it a firm tug. "Say it, or I'm springing for an actual leash."

With a final groan, he says, "And Santana isn't a bitch."

The Latina beams proudly before smacking my butt and saying, "Now run along, Ms. Pierce."

* * *

Coach Sylvester walks me into a room where a lone desk waits in the center. I am entirely alone, mind Sue, who places a sealed packet in front of me. "Three hours. Do your best, or don't. Either way, it's no skin off my back."

I peruse the cover. It contains a bunch of characters and symbols I don't understand, but I manage to gather that this is some sort of standardized test. "A test. An actual _test_," I mutter under my breath. "You really know how to woo a girl, Santana."

When time is called, my brain is fried from working all kinds of math and word problems. Reading passages and writing out comprehensive answers. My hand is cramped from using a pencil. Sue is far from sympathetic, for she merely walks over and replaces the test with a sheet of paper. It reads of a date about ten days from now. The location—Memphis, Tennessee. I'm not given the chance to ask what the information means before she rushes me off to class.

I've since decided to allow Santana's birthday surprise to remain a surprise. No sense in killing her growing buzz of excitement. Seriously. Santana has been busy rehearsing "Edge of Glory" every night at the apartment, running through the routines as well. I sometimes join her and carry the remaining dead weight. Even Eddie has picked up a handful of the steps from watching.

On the day of Nationals, he accompanies Santana to her final physical therapy session. At which she'll be cleared to perform tonight. "It's actually really cool," Eddie points out. "I could do something like that when I grow up. Fix people and what not."

I busy myself with simultaneously gathering our costumes and folding laundry, avoiding Santana's opportunity to grill me about the future. Rather, she says, "Ever since B was a little girl, all she's talked about is being a professional dancer."

"Sounds lame," Eddie says.

She takes a pair of my underwear from the pile and slingshots it, hitting him square in the eye. "I think it sounds rather exciting."

"Yeah, well times change, I'm afraid," I call out, furiously lumping two socks together. She's right, of course. Dancing's always made me feel untouchable. Like, no matter where I am, everyone else is light years away. I would do it forever, if possible. Unfortunately, passions get caught up in circumstance. And quite frankly, all of this talk about unreachable dreams is beginning to kill my vibe for tonight.

That is, until Santana sneaks up behind me, snaking an arm around my stomach and placing her chin on my shoulder. "They don't have to," she mumbles.

Eddie's riding with Carey tonight, so Santana and I leave early for McKinley. And when everyone is buzzing about, gathering in front of their respective mirrors, Santana leans over into my space. "What comes next, B?"

"I have no idea," I say.

* * *

The time has come. Normally, I'd never be this nervous before a performance, but Santana's question from earlier reels through my mind on a constant loop. Giving too much thought to the future is something I've never done. And now, with Nationals here and graduation fast approaching, the idea of the rest of my life is terrifying.

We're the first to perform and everyone's gathering backstage as the announcer opens up for tonight. I dare to peek through the curtain, out towards the audience. Eddie and Carey wave from seats next to Maribel. Dr. Lopez is nowhere to be found. I'm about to ask Santana where her second-biggest fan is when the sight of her speaking with Quinn preoccupies me. No one's being slapped, so I take it as a safe sign to approach. Santana beams and sings out, "The Unholy Trinity." She grabs our hands and pulls them to her chest. "Starting together. Ending together."

"Just the way it should be," I finish with a smile.

The TroubleTones plus a few are whisked away to a platform below the stage. In moments, we'll be lifted and our last year of Nationals will officially be underway. Not minding everyone else, Santana's face lights up as she looks to me and says, "Holy shit."

I'm now panicked. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

A smile cracks across her face as she says, "I just really love you." Giving my hand a squeeze, she then leans over and whispers, "What comes next, B?" And then we're lifted into the air.

* * *

There's always been this one thing about watching Santana perform. It's a lot of things, I suppose. The way she can go from limping around our apartment one minute to absolutely owning the shit out of Edge of Glory is just one of those things. The way she can make everything fall still in a mass of moving people is another. You could combine every performer from the beginning of time into one mega-gleebot and it would still be no contest. Hell, not even my words do her justice.

Her greatness continues well into our rendition of Paradise by the Dashboard Light. There one particular moment—when Santana and I stand across from each other and belt out the lyrics—that the finality of everything hits me. Even as I effortlessly finish the moves, I can't shake the realization. That a major chapter of our lives is coming to end, one show tune chorus at a time.

As our final routine comes to an end, as does the nostalgic effect of dancing alongside Santana. As does ever seeing the look of pride she wears just so long as the music continues. The way her eyes light up with every high note. All of it, gone.

We sit in the audience as other groups perform. I don't say anything. Instead, I'm solely focused on resisting the urge to cry. And when the last club finishes, we file back onstage.

Santana grips my hand tightly as the announcer returns, holding a single envelope. I want to tell her that the outcome doesn't really matter. I also want to tell her that considering the year leading up to this very moment, nothing would feel better than winning by her side.

The team from Portland places third, granting us new life. A collective breath flows through the crowd as he says, "And now, ladies and gentlemen. Quiet, please. Congratulations to both teams standing with us onstage. But now, it's time to announce a winner." _What comes next, Brittany?_ "The Twenty-Twelve National Show Choir champions…" _What comes next?_

"From McKinley High, in Lima, Ohio… the New Directions!" And then we're all jumping for joy.

* * *

After the last bit of confetti has fallen and the final team hug given, Eddie, Carey, Maribel, Santana, and I gather around in the school's foyer. More congratulatory hugs are given. Even Eddie wraps his arms around Santana's waist before teasing, "_You _missed a step." To which she promptly thumps him on the ear.

We finish off by waving goodbye to the New Directions. Quinn and Santana give each other understanding nods, and it's enough. Nearest the car, Santana blurts out, "Let's go on a road trip. Tonight. Right now."

Her spontaneity catches me off guard. "We can't, Santana. Not with graduation coming up. Besides, what are we going to wear the entire time? Our costumes?"

She opens the trunk. "I took the liberty of packing a few things. Come on. Where's your sense of adventure?" she teases, nudging me in the ribs. I don't remind her that our last adventure ended in a trip to the hospital. "We'll grab a couple of John Hancocks. Maybe stop at a shitty restaurant or two. You know, make an event of it."

"But graduation…" I plea.

"To hell with graduation," she quickly says. "Those losers aren't worthy of anymore of our time. Unless you'd rather stick around and witness Rachel's dramatic New York send-off?"

Considering that my best friend gets excited about few very things in life, I eventually shrug in agreement. Maybe this impromptu excursion will help to delay our fast-approaching adult lives. Eddie must be trying to escape adulthood, too, because he's the first to pile in the car. Not bothering to change our costumes, Santana and I follow suit, with me behind the wheel.

"Where to, Miss Daisy?" I playfully ask.

"South," she says, pointing into a direction that I'm sure isn't, in fact, south. But we tear off into the night, soon leaving Lima in the rearview. And when the steady road lulls my companions to sleep, I'm afforded some much-needed thinking time. A period to sort through all of my jumbled thoughts.

A familiar song begins playing on an old rock station somewhere around Dayton. Back when I would sneak over to Santana's house to binge on episodes of One Tree Hill, it was part of the opening credits. And though I've been tuning out the radio up until now, a single chorus line stands out against the others. _Part of knowing where I'm going, is knowing where I'm coming from._ Even Santana's subconscious must recognize it, for she begins humming it in her sleep. The line instantly makes me think about her question of what's to come.

The skies then open up. The heavens are singing their joyous song. If this knowledge bomb had been a snake, it would've punched me square in the nose.

It's like the puzzles Mom and I used to work together, trying to decipher Mr. DeGraw's clue. But what I think he's trying to say is that, in order to grow, I need to know where I started. Kind of like that whole sappy "roots before branches" spiel Rachel would always harp on.

But this puzzle piece connects me to an even broader idea. Growing makes me think of roots and branches, and those make me think of trees. Trees lead me to the top of the BSP Book Club's list of preferred reading—The Giving Tree. The story of a lone tree who gave one young boy everything she had through their years together. And what did the boy give her? Jack shit, that's what.

Some days, you're the tree; some days, you're the boy. All I know is that if I'm going to be a friggin' plant, only a select few individuals will be taking my apples. Building houses from my branches. Turning me into a boat. Eddie and Santana, primarily.

So far, what I've given them is nowhere near what I could. It isn't fair to them, subconsciously devoting my inner thoughts and actions to a figment of my imagination. To nothing more than a mirage. To someone who's been less than constant in my life. No. There are too many major changes to come. And if Brittany Susan Pierce is going to eventually decay into a stump that supports the frail bodies of her loved ones, it's going to be a damn good stump.

Stumps don't need branches. Stumps don't recognize their former lives. Stumps cut off the poisonous roots. This stump must do the same. For all of our stump-needing sakes.

I glance to the roadside foliage, seeking their approval. "Right, you guys?"

Okay. So maybe too many late nights and early mornings have taken their toll. Maybe I'm delirious and shouldn't be operating heavy machinery. Maybe I am now in the business of talking to plants. Regardless, as we near the outskirts of Ohio, I quickly pull off of the interstate and barrel on an abandoned side street. Its sign reads of a recognizable location. One I've made the trip to a few times before.

And hours later, as I pull into the parking lot of a massive, dreary building, I suddenly realize what a terrible decision I've made. Nervousness for a confrontation that won't occur until morning sets in. Eddie and Santana remain dead to the world. They don't rustle in the least as I keep awake, anxiously tapping on the steering wheel. Getting out of the car three separate times to puke.

Morning rays of light eventually make their way through the tree line. A chill of dawn falls over the lot. Only a handful of vehicles join ours on the asphalt. As I begin reciting my piece for the sixteenth time, Santana mutters, "You'll be fine, Brittany."

It startles me. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough to know that you've reached sloppy party girl-status with the puking," she chuckles, rolling over to face me. She then asks unsteadily, "Are you sure about this?"

_Of course I'm not sure about this. I'm not sure about anything, these days. _"I'm going to be a damn good stump," I then say forcibly, hoping the ever-cryptic Santana will understand.

She must, because she gives me a confident nod before saying, "You're going to be fine. I love you, B."

Inside, I go through the same familiar motions. Ones I endured in visiting both Santana and Roz. Remove my shoes. Walk through a metal detector. Allow a mass of beige to consume me. At a window, from behind an inch of Plexiglas, a clerk asks, "Name?"

"Brittany," I confidently answer.

She grunts, sarcastically waving my license from behind the barrier. "Of who you're visiting with, dear."

"Oh, right," I awkwardly laugh. My palms begin sweating. A lump forms in my throat. Instinct screams that I run back outside. To the shelter of a car, where Santana can protect me. _Come on, Brittany. You're here for a reason. This is what you need to do. This is what comes next_, an internal voice whispers_._

So I upright, steadying my voice. And in one quick breath, I say, "Susan Pierce."

* * *

**Author's Note:**** All right, dudes. First and foremost, I'm beginning to be especially critical on myself for the quality of writing. (Only now have I realized what an absolute sucker I am for adverbs.) It's an absolute fucker trying to balance classes, work, and life, in general. But please know that every spare second I possess is dedicated to finishing this piece.**

**As far as updating is concerned, I've got a clear timeline laid out for what follows. Please, just bear with me.**

**And to everyone sending warmth about my ailment, (Like, all four of you.) I am greatly appreciative. If there is any sense of hostility in this chapter, it's more from a growing distaste for school than it is anything else. Lol.**

**As always, I thank you guys.**

**anongurl (Guest): That's it. You win. Hands down, best review ever. Lol. And for that, I thank you.**

**Channy2425: Don't you worry about the guy. He's too much fun to write. Lol.**

**JJLives: I hope this clears up a couple of your questions. More will be answered next chapter. And I'd like to think that she is, whether or not she admits it. As always, thanks for taking the time to read and review.**

**luceroadorada: An eleven-year-old with the wits of an old man, I like to think. Lol. I am feeling much better, thanks. And a major thank you for the review.**

**insertnameherex: Well, I thank you for that. I've screwed with them enough to do anymore detrimental damage, though I do reserve the right to fuck shit up on a smaller scale. Lol. Thanks for the kind words, and I apologize for not having updated sooner.**

**StephaniieC: "I'll get you a decent room in Lima." Hahahaha. Too funny. I'm feeling much better, thanks. And as always, my friend, thanks for the review.**

**LoneGambit: Whaaaaaaaaat? Why is it that you consistently dumbfound me with your kind words? (Dumbfounded in the best way, of course.) I'm merely doing my best, considering. And if it seems that the writing isn't up to par with these last couple of chapters, you'll have to forgive me. It's a bitch making time to write and legitimately proofread, though I spend every extra second doing so. But as I will always say, your words never cease to warm my heart. And for that, I thank you.**


	25. Chapter 25

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

_**Side Note: This was originally a 10,000 word chapter, but I found that a bit excessive. So, proceed on to the next chapter for its finish.**_

* * *

For forty-five minutes, I wait. Nerves do their nervy job and heighten by the second. This furnace of a building coaxes sweat from my pores. Strangers come and go. I watch as they file inside and out. One particular pairing, a man and a young boy, catches my attention. A father and son, perhaps?

Watching them hold hands upsets my stomach. The boy's smile and electric eyes. The man's beaten expression. The image is sickening, purely because it takes me back to the number one best BSP and her mom moment:

I was seven-years-old, and it was shortly after Dad had been admitted into the hospital. He wasn't doing so well, sleeping for large portions of each day and eating very little. When one of his naps lasted for two straight days, Mom buckled over and called an ambulance.

Tears everywhere. From people I'd never seen before. A middle-aged woman or man would come into the room, stand for a second, tap Dad's hand, and hug Mom before leaving. I sat in a corner chair the entire time. Knees digging into my chest. For hours, not getting up for anything or anyone, until the influx of strangers stopped. That was mid-afternoon and when Mom decided that she would go out.

We stopped for tacos and went to a local park. Mom and I spent forever on that playground, climbing monkey bars and sliding down slides and maneuvering a misshapen jungle gym like the charming bastards that we were. And when my out-of-shape kid self finally tired, we sat at a picnic table and just talked.

Actually, Mom did most of the talking. She held on to both of my tiny hands and said, "Honey, there's something I'd like to tell you concerning your daddy." I already knew that he wasn't a secret agent or superhero. Dad was far too nice to beat anybody up. So I sat with my midget hands in Mom's adult ones and paid close attention. Then it was some long speech about how life has chapters like our favorites book do and sometimes those books have to end. But that didn't mean that they still couldn't be our favorite books or something. Truthfully, at some point in my life, I think my brain decided to block that part out.

Come to think of it, she basically fed me the same line as Carey did in the cemetery. That goodbyes don't exist if you want to see someone again badly enough.

Regardless of that depressing crap, though, it was still my number one moment. A new, yet equally as depressing revelation—it was also the _only_ special BSP and her mom day.

In present time, the clerk leaves her post and approaches me. "I'm truly sorry to inform you of this, but Mrs. Pierce has declined to be seen."

"Did you tell her that it was me?" I ask, undoubtedly sounding far too helpless.

The clerk nods sullenly. "Try coming back next week. Maybe she'll have changed her mind." My silence must be answer enough, for she retrieves a pad and pen, saying, "Or you could leave a message, and I'll see that it's delivered."

The pen falls heavy in my hand. Oh, how easy it would be to spill my heart onto this page. Say everything that is far too difficult to say aloud. Free from a shaky voice. Not bound by her contemptuous glare. Who am I to deny what's easy when everything leading up until now has been anything but?

A familiar pang of sadness hits my chest. Not specifically for my mother, but at the memory of having been in her position before. The receiving end of a letter similar to this one. Is this how Santana felt? Did she struggle in stringing together the most basic of sentences? Because now, being in her position as well, delivering bad news is tenfold in comparison to ever receiving it.

Santana. She's the only thought fluttering through my mind now. Letters such as these, they tore us apart. Letters such as these, they also brought us together. Eddie is even in on the action, what with his uncle's writing. I lean back in the metal chair. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Of how, in a world where the three of us don't have much, the written word is ours to claim. And here Susan is, ripping it away. Ruining yet another aspect of my life. Our lives.

"Excuse me," I say, tearing the woman's attention from her computer screen. "If I just tell you what to say, can you still deliver the message?"

If I sounded desperate five minutes ago, then I must be the most desolate person in this place, for her eyes sink at my request. She does, however, nod and reach for the pad of paper. With a second nod, I begin. "Firstly, tell her that I love her. And it really sucks because I have every reason not to," I say in a steady voice. "Secondly, tell her that I forgive her for what she did. And it really sucks again, because I still have every reason not to."

The clerk scribbles furiously. Looking up from the counter, she asks, "And lastly?"

The finality of everything hits me at once. The corners of my eyes sting with tears. These aren't nerves, but the reaction of a girl who's beginning to realize what a shit chapter-closer she is. A girl whose dreams used to be filled with happy endings. A girl who has bid farewell to many others, only to have them reappear in her life. This is the reaction of a girl who now doesn't want any grand reappearance, and it pains her so. Purely because those dreams of happy endings used to seem so within reach, and often included her mother.

I steel myself, sniffling and finally concluding, "Tell her that this is goodbye."

I practically sprint from the building. Outside, the wind gently blows. It ripples through the surrounding trees. I look to the sky; sure that Dad is looking down on this moment. If only he were here. For a single second. To tell me that everything is going to be okay. Arms extended, I ask the towering mass of blue, "Am I doing all right?"

In answer, the breeze stirs up a tornado of leaves in the parking lot. I stand in awe, following only when the swirl dances harmoniously across asphalt. Winding around. Leading me to an unknown destination. That is, until the barricade of trees falls still. Sounds of their sways hush. The leaves are last to break free of this spell, drifting to the ground, one by one. And then I'm left staring ahead at our car, where Eddie and Santana are still fast asleep.

In a surge of optimism, I fling the passenger-side door open and dive into my best friend's stomach, holding on for dear life. As if the wind might return and sweep me away. Santana eventually squeezes back, asking through lidded eyes, "What comes next, B?"

I kiss her as deeply as I can. Then once more. "We head south."

* * *

Santana is barreling down the interstate at full speed and everyone is awake and wind filters in four open windows and the sun is shining and the sky is blue and it isn't hot as absolute hell on this fine July day and Brittany Susan Pierce is not complaining. Whew. In fact, though it goes against my better judgment, I feel genuinely content. Like believing in things again won't lead to heartbreak and tears. Kind of like the old Brittany would.

Per the loosely-worded itinerary, our first scheduled stop will be around the Louisville area. According to Santana's account of her recent phone conversation with Eddie's mysterious letter-sending uncle, "their stupid ass family reunion— seriously, who even has those anymore?—is about twenty minutes outside of the city". So we're en route, pretending to audition for American Idol and playing road games to pass the time.

The alphabet game, specifically. Which Santana refuses to play because she says that road games are dumb, and focusing her efforts on anything other than trying to kill us would be plain wrong. But seriously. The car horn constantly blares. Spanish cuss words are thrown at any driver who isn't hitting Mach One. I've already prepared a eulogy.

"Exercise," I say, pointing to a group of joggers, hoping it will take my mind away from our impending doom. "Like what they're doing."

Eddie looks at me awkwardly. "That's an 'e', Brittany. You're on the letter 'x'."

_Oh. _ "I say it counts," Santana says, coming to my defense. She's been relatively voiceless in our game until now. "X is just too hard to find."

"Only for illiterate chumps. Now pipe down, front seat. I'm about to win," the boy says.

Santana leans back, steering with her left knee and gesticulating wildly. "All I'm saying is that these games are designed to make us feel like assholes. What? Is the periodic table randomly plastered to a billboard?" She points out the window. "Ah, yes. There's Xenon. Lucky me." The steering wheel cuts sharply. "No. And unless there's some xylophone sale going on that I don't know about, Brittany's fucked. Which I don't think is fair, and therefore move that all letters and their rhyming counterparts be counted."

I giggle at how much she's evidently thought this through. And then I giggle just a bit more at the sight of Santana, tossing and turning in bed, haunted by the matter. "It's okay, Santana," I say in between fits.

We speed by a car. "No, it's not. Good people are subjected to the humiliation of losing every day. And what for? A stupid _letter_?"

Eddie unbuckles and moves to the middle console, scouring over our makeshift scoring sheet. "Exhaust," he then says, pointing to a semi-truck's tailpipe. And then, in order, he points to his mouth, my face, and Santana's. "Exhale. Excited. Expired. Per the newest revelation, I believe it's Eddie for the win."

"Time out," I quickly argue. "I may not be the best with words, but I know milk when I see it. And Santana is not. And while she might slightly resemble the creamy deliciousness if you ran out of syrup halfway into making chocolate milk, 'expired' still doesn't count."

He falls back into the seat and shrugs, now doodling on the napkin. "Well, 'ugly' didn't quite fit the bill as far as rhyming's concerned." Tapping his pen, he points it into the air. Like those guys in movies do when they have an idea. I wait for a light bulb to appear. "_Wait. _I've got it," he announces.

Santana cuts her eyes into the rearview mirror and I quit breathing because shit's about to get real.

How do I know this?

Remember two weeks ago, when World War E broke out shortly after those gorgeous, brown vision balls did the same? I brace myself as a voice slowly rises. "Don't you say it, kid. Don't you say it OR SO HELP ME GOD, I WILL PULL THIS VEHICLE OVER."

Please don't say it. Please don't say it. _Please_ don't say it_. _"_Exceptionally_ ugly," a little voice sneers.

He said it.

We're rapidly accelerating now, and I begin editing Eddie's name out of my eulogy. He gets replaced by: _And while it's sad that I never saw the Indigo Girls in concert…_ "Take the wheel," Santana says, breaking me from composing the perfect afterlife speech. I keep dumbly still until she speaks again. "Take the wheel, Brittany, or we're all going to die." I eventually do.

In a flash, the Latina is unbuckled and flipped over, tan skin swatting at other tan skin. The more Eddie ducks away, the more she propels toward him; and the more she propels, the harder she presses on the gas pedal. Someone's butt bumps my arm.

We swerve.

Swerving at ninety miles an hour is not good.

The tussling eventually dissipates, though, and I no longer have to worry about explaining to God how the English language killed me. Eddie groans. Santana acts as if nothing's happened. I allow a breath of relief.

Well, that is, until flashing red and blue lights appear behind us.

* * *

"Shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Santana begins buckling up again but stops. "Quick, switch places with me," she says, tugging at my arm.

"Huh? What the hell's going on?"

In one panicked breath, she explains, "Okay. So _maybe_ I told my P.O. that I'd be on a cheerleading retreat with Sue this week. Not tearing up the Kentucky countryside."

"Damn it, Santana."

"What was I supposed to do?"

"Twenty bucks and I can make this all go away," Eddie says coolly.

"Gee, I don't know. Tell the truth?"

"Brittany, the truth doesn't get you anywhere. The truth keeps you in Lima."

"Twenty bucks and no one gets in trouble," he calls out.

Santana twists around like she's about to yell for him to quit piping in when there's a _knock, knock, knock_ on the driver's side window. We freeze. She then growls, "Deal."

* * *

The police officer's aviator-style glasses look identical to Santana's. Neither of them is smiling. In fact, their frowns look eerily similar, too. I'm starting to think that if Santana grew a beard and gained some weight, she could pass as the guy's twin.

As promised, Eddie shimmies his head in front of Santana's and snakes an eleven-year-old hand around her neck, extending it to the officer. "Eddie Pierce, official translator. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

The beard grunts but doesn't ask questions. He simply says, "Please relay that I clocked this vehicle at twenty over. And in accordance to the reckless swerving I just witnessed to take place, she'll need to step out of the vehicle." I suddenly want to punch him in his overly smug face.

"Funny you should say that," Eddie begins. "Because there is a perfectly valid reason for all of this mess."

"Son—"

But Eddie calmly puts up a hand, silencing the beard. "Just a moment," he begins, clearing his throat. "Now, with this country's rapidly dwindling bee population, I do believe that the poor creatures are taking shelter in just about every place that seems safe. And with three warmhearted, law-abiding citizens as ourselves, I also believe that our company is about as safe a place as they come. But the thing is—" he puts a finger to his chin again and points at the officer. "Do you have children, sir? Daughters, to be specific."

The beard grunts again and nods. "Three."

Eddie grins warmly. "I bet they're as strapping as their father, huh?" The beard grins dumbly. "Then you, as the man of your house, know what kind of pressure I'm under. A never-ending responsibility to protect the women that we love. Agreed?"

"Of course."

"You're a reasonable man, I see. There's no funny business going on here. We're merely the victims of a haven-seeking bee in closed quarters." The boy then leans over and whispers behind his hand, "You know how girls can be. Wimps, the lot of them."

The beard uprights himself, nodding. "I do. But, son—"

"And to make matters worse," Eddie continues without missing a beat, pointing to Santana. "That one's got a serious case of explosive diarrhea . Bad burritos. And if we wait _any longer_, there's going to be a serious mess on our hands." Insert dramatic pause. "I'd like to have children someday, sir. See their first steps. Threaten unruly teenage boys and girls. But that won't be possible if my vision is obliterated by her toxic fumes. Do you want kids to grow up with a blind father? A zero-English speaking aunt _and_ a blind father?"

The beard is quiet and conflicted by our prepubescent smooth talker. Eddie finishes with, "Think of the children. Do the right thing here."

I'm worried that he's about to call bullshit until the man takes on a new sense of urgency. "Tell her to keep up. I'll get you to a restroom, stat."

The vehicle shifts into gear and we silently follow a blaring siren. I'm on the verge of slow clapping Eddie's efforts, who grins from the back seat. Santana frowns but eventually clears the air, saying, "That's quite the vocabulary for an eleven-year-old."

"Used to sleep in a library during the winter. Read when things got boring. Big words confuse cops," Eddie laughs.

"I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

Eddie is officially twenty dollars richer by the time we reach Louisville. Which originally bugs Santana, but as we're passing through the downtown area, her brightens into that of a five-year-old's on Christmas morning. She's absolutely giddy, and I'm about to ask why when I follow her eyes to a massive block of wood. It's attached to a building labeled "The Louisville Slugger Museum". The block of wood begins to take shape, and I realize that it's a baseball bat.

Santana practically barrel rolls from the car, rushing to a podium on the sidewalk. She turns back, saying, "The. World's. Largest. Bat." A phone is then thrown at me. "Quick, take my picture."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you planned this happy accident," I say when we're loaded up again. Nobody answers. Instead, both Eddie and Santana are huddled over her cellphone, thumbing through the photos. "Earth to the fanatical dorks," I say, waving a hand across the screen. No reaction. "Is anybody listening?" I'm then double-shushed.

The buzz follows us farther south. All along the interstate, three words are repeated, in different tones each time. "Imagine keeping _that _by the door," Santana says.

"Imagine keeping it by the _world's largest_ door," Eddie buzzes back.

Their hype eventually fades as we delve deeper into Kentucky, and I'm secretly hoping that the world's largest nothing exists in these next cities.

Later, Santana pulls off in front of a shitty looking motel, complete with a flickering sign and all of two other vehicles. The kind that murderers and drug dealers would avoid. If you don't blink, you can see the ghost of every marriage that's come here to die. Even Eddie looks royally freaked out. "Keep your vaginas on," Santana says. "I've already checked it out. Only, like, ten people were murdered here."

I know it's a joke, but the car is looking particularly comfortable right now. Eddie and I hesitantly follow anyway, eventually breaking into a run to our room.

If the outside looked bad, then we've stepped into the seventh circle of hell. There is a single bed, desk with cracking wood, and television held in place by dead bolts. I don't dare look into the bathroom. Eddie merely shrugs and flops onto the bed.

We crawl in alongside him, only to find our reflections overhead. "Imagine waking up every morning to your own face staring back down," Eddie says.

"Imagine waking up in the middle of the _night_ to your own face staring back down," I add.

Santana giggles. "Imagine having sex in this bed."

Eddie rolls over, and I'm almost certain that he's reached the tipping point of being grossed out, but a _clink_ says otherwise. In seconds, the bed shakes beneath us. We spend the entire night pumping quarters into a small box, laughing as a continuous earthquake rumbling our bodies.

* * *

After a sleepless night filled with sporadic, loud pops, we slug around, preparing for the day. The day we've arranged for Eddie to meet his shit-for-nothing uncle. To get some answers. And to ultimately get those friggin' signatures and get the hell out of dodge.

Eddie's acting funnier by the minute in the hours leading up. We check out of the shady motel and kill some time along the way, eventually making it to a small restaurant by seven o'clock.

Santana offers to buy him something to eat. I offer to sit with him until this uncle character shows. Eddie denies both offers because he's a friggin' champ that doesn't need free food or a babysitter. Eddie is strong. Eddie is smart. Eddie asks that we find something else— somewhere else— to occupy our time.

I suggest that we go for ice cream.

Santana pulls me by the arm and forces me into a rear-most booth. "He's too antsy. Too excited," she says, looking on.

We're both hunkered down, facing the front window. "This bread tastes like Kleenex."

"Why does he seem so excited? Are we not fun enough? Not cool enough? Do we not feed his betraying ass?"

"And not the good kind of Kleenex."

"I ought to smack that grin off of his ungrateful face," she says, craning her neck.

"Would you like some binoculars?"

"Brittany."

"Santana?"

Two hours and nada. Capoot. Jack diddly. Diddly squat. I've gone through seven baskets of bread while Santana's kept her eyes trained on the room's center, which is weird because if there's one person who likes to freight train their way through some carbo-loaded goodness—it's Santana.

The waitress makes us order at some point, because free bread isn't actually free, and Santana waves a hand at me, so I order for both of us. Shrimp for everybody. Actually, shrimp for the two of us. Actually, shrimp for me.

"We're leaving," Santana says.

With a mouth full of seafood, I insist, "Give it some more time."

"It's been two hours."

"Then we'll give him three," I say. She frowns because I make the rules now, on account of my sitting on the outside, trapping her in.

I eventually grow a little stir crazy, too, and begin reenacting Civil War battles with a fresh order of shrimp. I recruit Santana as my fact checker because she always paid more attention in history than I did, but those chocolate orbs aren't breaking away from Eddie for anything. "There's a fire," I say. Doesn't work. "I'm choking." Nope. "The Queen of England just called. Says she wants us over for tea." Silencio.

A strange-looking man appears outside the glass window. A burly guy, about six foot or so. Basically a refrigerator with legs. ZZ Top-style beard. Sweatpants and a t-shirt. He stares inside, eyes scanning and locking in on Eddie. Guy stands there for five solid minutes before taking a deep breath, reaching for the door, pausing, and taking off in the opposite direction. That gut feeling Dad used to warn me about hits with full force

My senses hone in.

I try ignoring it.

Ladies and gentleman, we are at Defcon One.

Pulling Santana's arm, I say, "I need your help."

She pulls back. "I'm busy, B."

"Hey," I say, snapping my fingers and commanding her full attention. "I think I saw _him_. I took the wheel when you said to. Now get your ass up and come help me."

We bob and weave through the restaurant kitchen, knocking into a couple of confused chefs, before ramming through a back door. Peeking around a corner and over two trash cans, I spy the Jolly Bearded Giant climb into a car. It faces the road, so I'm able to catch the Illinois license plate.

Santana catches my arm when I try to approach him. "Like hell you are."

"Like hell I'm what?"

"Talking to that guy," she says.

"I'm just going to ask some questions," I reply. "And maybe threaten to stick you on him if things go awry."

"Do you realize how dange—"

"I love you."

She goes to argue something back, but my cunning reverse psychology allows ample peel away opportunity. My best friend stands still, arms crossed and scowling, as I near the vehicle. Looking back a final time, I open the passenger door and dive inside.

JBG craps his pants, I think. Or at least pees a little. Even if he did, though, the smell wouldn't be noticeable, for the interior of this clown car reeks of stale cigarettes and broken dreams. I cut my eyes to JBG, who sits there like a big dummy, holding a pipe in front of his mouth. "Pot? Seriously?" I ask like the walking no-smoking poster that I am. "What are you, fifteen?"

He doesn't go to answer, but looks even more startled as Santana plops down on the hood of the car. She isn't facing us, but I know that she looks absolutely ferocious. JBG knows this, too. "Didn't your parents ever tell you not to get in the car with strangers?" he asks in total dummy fashion.

"I've seen dangerous. You, my huggable friend, do not possess one ounce of danger," I say. "So tell me, are you his uncle or father or what?"

BSP cuts to the chase when her people are involved.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Check it out," I say, patting his shoulder and pointing outside. "See that beautiful girl sitting on the hood of your car? See that hair? Razorblades. All up in there. And in that restaurant, there's a little boy who's been waiting for almost _three hours_ for his long-lost uncle to show up and put his genius mind to rest. So, I'm going to ask you again, who in the hell are you?"

For a second, JBG appears genuinely ashamed like the teddy bear that he is. "Terri Schmultz. Uncle."

That was easy.

"How did you find him? Did you _follow us? _ Because that's level ten weirdo behavior and I'm not sure I can handle that," I say.

"Woah, woah. What? No way. The kid wrote me first," he insists.

"And what did he say?"

"That's private," JBG breathes, leaning his head back.

I've got two options here: tell JBG that I love him and hope it plays a symphony on the bastard's heart strings, or lay down my super-effective BSP guilt card. I choose the latter, purely because my love is reserved for one Santana Lopez and adults always feel guilty about _something_. So I say, "Your parents, Eddie's grandparents— are they good people?"

"They're dead."

"You struggled in school, didn't you? Because you're having one hell of a time following simple instructions, Terri."

He groans. "Yes. They were good people."

"And in that massive swimming pool in the sky, do you think they're smiling down on our situation?" Pure silence. "Terri."

JBG looks like he might cry and I'm equally saddened, but this is not a time for sadness. Even though I know what dead parents feels like, and it's nothing that'll make you laugh. So I throw a motherly hand on his shoulder and wait. "No. No they're not," he says.

"Are Eddie's parents good people, too?" I ask.

The beard nods. "Still married and very much in love."

I chuckle ironically and ignore the last bit, tooting on the car horn, almost making Santana pee herself, too, and wave a finger, signaling her to us. She slips the papers through my window, cutting a glance at JBG. I place the stapled pile in front of the guy. "Okay, so this is what's going to happen," I begin. "You're going to sign these papers for his parents, giving me and chickie exclusive rights to Eddie. We're then going to leave as if this never happened."

Pausing for dramatic effect, I allow the weight of his absence to punch JBG square in the heart. "You're not a bad guy, Terri. And it's not your fault that you have a girl's name. But as the better half of the whole that has Eddie's best interests at heart, I cannot allow you to see him. You are one tardy motherfucker and therefore undeserving of his love. I guess I'm sorry about that, too."

JBG doesn't question my assertiveness and quickly scribbles two different names on each line. When the pen is clicked, sealing our fates, I laugh again. More sadly, this time. "Funny how they're still in love, but can't extend the same to their own child," I say before climbing out of the car, slamming its door shut.

"Girl," JBG calls after, standing outside of the vehicle. I dare to look back. "If it's any consolation, my brother's no better than I am."

I look to the last document. Travis and Pepper Schmultz. Ugly people with even uglier names. The people that created Eddie. The people who left him to fend for himself. BSP cannot forgive everyone. Especially when I've got to explain all of this nonsense to Eddie. I stare coldly into JBG's chubby face, searching for a final ounce of remorse. There is none.

And so I say, "It's not."

* * *

Eddie's trying to act like he's not glum in the restaurant, but we know better. Even when he shrugs and says, "Can't miss what you never had," it breaks my heart just a little bit.

So while I drive, Santana sits with him in the back seat, arm draped around his shoulder, holding on tightly. She keeps saying, "It's okay. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. It's all going to be okay." Break ups are always messy, but getting dumped by your own family trumps all. Santana understands this, so she retracts the claws, if only for tonight.

I'm really trying to ignore the fact that Santana and I dropped the ball as interim parents. Seriously, how did no one see this coming? It was all too familiar. The buildup. The disappointment. The aftermath. We let him get his hopes up. All of this is our faults.

Santana and I switch about halfway into the drive, sometime around midnight. Which is okay, because she loves the night. Back in middle school, she used to always talk about how everything was so much more honest at this time of day. How the light messes things up, what with our vision skewing the truth.

I sprawl out across the back seat, Eddie's head on my chest and my feet propped up on Santana's headrest, thinking of those truths. Within no time at all, the road lulls me to sleep.

* * *

**Like I said, guys. Grab some popcorn, or a nap, or whatever. The next chapter will include all replies.**


	26. Chapter 26

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

_**Side Note: This is a direct continuance of Chapter 25.**_

* * *

My neck cramps and eyes jolt open to a crying Santana. It's quiet, and she looks back to us before turning the radio up a notch or two. I pretend to be asleep.

A guitar strums slowly, strings plucking. Santana rests her head back, exhaling painfully and singing along to the radio. "_They painted up your secrets, with the lies they told to you. And the least they ever gave you was the most you ever knew." _I don't know who she's talking about or why, but it's clearly killing Santana. Clear to anyone who knows that she only sings with _this_ kind of emotion when she thinks no one's looking.

"_And I wonder where these dreams go, when the world gets in your way." _She can't even finish the line on account of newly broken cries.

"_And you know I see right through you, 'cuz the world gets in your way. What's the point in all this screaming? You're not listening anyway."_

What, Santana? What's wrong? Why all of the sadness?

Makes you really appreciate hearing the smile in someone's voice. How easiest it is. But forcing yourself to remain still while sorrow pours from their mouth? Now that's difficult. Especially when you have absolutely zero clue of how to make it stop. And it eventually becomes too much for me to handle. "Who's not listening, Santana?" I whisper, startling her.

Speaking into the window, careful to avoid my gaze, she jerks the wheel and snaps, "Jesus, Brittany. What are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?"

"I believe that's your job," I half-heartedly joke. "You can talk to me about anything. You know that, right?"

No laugh. Instead, she twists uncomfortably biting her hand and swallowing tears. "Of course."

_Who's not listening to you?_ I think. But mutter, "Just wanted to say that I still love you."

"I still love you, too," she half sniff, half laughs. "Now go back to sleep."

* * *

Nashville is the only remotely interesting sight in Tennessee, with its shopping and skyscrapers and stadiums. I don't mention stopping, though, on account of being tee-totally broke. Which is okay for living off of gas station food, but Santana's already said that we'll be sleeping in the car for the next few days.

I spot an interstate exit sign and take the opportunity to address the information Sue refused to. Waving the slip of paper around, I then read aloud, "July fifth, two thousand twelve. Memphis, Tennessee." Santana's ears perk up. "To what do I owe this surprise?"

"Absolutely nothing. That's why it's a surprise," she absently teases, sounding distant. I haven't addressed last night, and after this, decide not to at all.

Eddie's had a rough go at it, and he's only just waking up. The kid slept like a rock last night, and the left side of my body is numb. "Thought we were going home," he says, climbing into the front seat.

Santana looks at him like she has gas. Of the time we've spent together, I don't believe that anyone's ever called the apartment anything but. Because homes belong to families. Homes deserve families. And up until last night, we fall into that category. "We will, buddy. Just after this trip," she says, running her hand through his hair.

We stop for milkshakes and fries, and Santana proceeds to tell Eddie that fry-into-milkshake dippage is scientifically proven to be the most delicious thing on this planet, to which Eddie says he should slap her for ever suggesting such a thing. People are staring and I'm totally eating up this beautifully dysfunctional trio of ours.

The manager eventually asks us to leave on account of their shouting and this being a good Christian, family-oriented establishment. "But we are a family," I say, instantly deciding that from here on out, I'm going to milk that line for all that it's worth.

Manager Man isn't convinced. "Please leave."

* * *

Another four hours and we're finally in Memphis, settling the car in a potentially well-lit parking garage. It's ironic, purely because the space belongs to a hotel we can't afford. Eddie says we're beating the system. Sticking it to the man or something. Regardless, we each rest up, eager for an early start to scouring the downtown area.

Three days go by in Memphis. Three nights in the car. Good barbecue. Good music. Funny-smelling at times. It's like New York, I would imagine, just on a smaller scale. You know, if fractions are your thing.

On the fourth morning, Eddie returns to the car with a box of doughnuts. It's terrifying because neither of us heard him leave, but Santana lets the issue drop. You know, because he's newly parentless and I think she's really trying to be sympathetic.

He also brings word of an event going on today, down by the river. A one-day music festival, celebrating the Fourth of July. So we go and purchase tickets, despite the bad rap this park supposedly gets, according to Santana's research. I'm digging the place, though, with it being by the water. But Santana turns her nose up at everything she sees. "It's Stoner Island in here," she points out matter-of-factly, nose literally in the air, sniffing. "And everyone is dressed like a slightly less attractive version of Puck. If that's even possible."

"But the _music_," Eddie says, bobbing his head and licking powdered sugar from his fingers.

Santana peels his right eyelid back. "I swear," she says, cutting both eyes toward a group of teenagery looking guys and girls. Billows of smoke rise from the circle's middle. "IF HE'S HIGH, ONE OF YOUR SORRY REDNECK ASSES WILL EXPERIENCE THE WRATH OF LIMA HEIGHTS." Heads turn. People mutter.

"Dude, chillax. Funnel cakes just have this weird effect on me. I'm going to get a slushie," Eddie says, wiping his hands on clean on his shirt. "Oh, and Santana. Don't say 'wrath' again. It's embarrassing. Makes you sound like a Sunday school teacher."

When he walks away, she grumbles, "Wrath, wrath, wrath."

Plenty more people show up and another band takes the stage. They're not too bad, actually. Jazzy with a hint of blues. Everyone's vibing and swaying in place. Even the people who stand next to us in the middle and can't hear the music all that well.

Eddie's sitting his too-short-to-see eleven-year-old butt on Santana's shoulders, sipping on a cup of blue frozen goodness.

We begin swaying, too, and I take Santana's free hand. You know, because she's the love of my life and possesses sole hand-holding rights.

Halfway into the set, a lowly voice complains from behind. "Get down! We can't see!"

The three of us know who this random whiner is referring to, because the Eddie-Santana tower is a friggin' beast, and the three of us don't move a muscle. That is, until someone's poking on a finger on Santana's back. She turns, eyebrow cocked. I recognize the teenager from earlier. He stood in the outermost part of the smoke circle. Shaggy hair. Unshaven. "Yes?" Santana asks.

"You're blocking our way. Nobody can see," he drawls out.

Eddie crosses his arms, looking down on the teenager. Nudging his leg, she looks directly at the boy and says, "Mr. Eddie, I do believe we have an issue that needs resolving. A friend in dire needed of cooling off." And in one fluid motion, the blue frozen goodness begins creeping down the sides of Shaggy's head. He stands dumbfounded before mustering a protest. But Santana merely holds a finger to his lips.

Eddie then says, "They're gay and I'm, uhh, Hispanic? So any further hostility will be perceived as a hate crime." It's totally kickass and completely terrifying because these two slushie-dumping monsters are the people I've committed my life to.

Nobody complains for the rest of the performance, though. Santana's beaming proudly, and I can't help but laugh a little, either. When we're each walking hand in hand, with Eddie in the middle, I lean over and tease, "Cooling off, huh? Aren't we supposed to be setting the example?"

"Best cure for a broken heart," Santana laughs.

And then we're on a grassy knoll nearest the water, resting our tired vigilante butts. Eddie lays on his back, making grass angels. Santana props her back against my chest, and then I'm hugging her until I can hug her no more.

Other people gather around, too. The sun is setting quickly. Coming off of the river, the air is cool. When darkness finally overtakes the crowd, the first firework bursts free. And then it's a succession of vibrant colors against the navy blue backdrop. Everyone _oohs_ and _ahhs_ as our nation's freedom is celebrated with each loud pop.

I dare to peek at Santana, whose eyes reflect the image. Smaller versions of the above scene play from them. I could watch her forever. How mesmerized she is. Vulnerable. There's a flash of my old best friend.

I'm staring. I know I am. It doesn't matter, though. The show eventually ends, but Santana's expression remains the same. She doesn't move from our spot on the lawn, long after the others clear out. "What's on that mind of yours?" I ask when Eddie runs off to search for strangers' left-behind goodies.

Santana blinks as if I've asked her to explain quantum physics. Soon enough, she takes a deep breath and says, "Just to soak everything in. Before it all changes."

"Change isn't necessarily a bad thing," I quickly say, placing a lasting kiss to her shoulder. "If you hadn't of changed your mind about me, we wouldn't be sitting here."

She half smiles, half frowns, and I think she's about to cry again. But Santana stands up, extends a hand to me, and says, "We're splurging tonight. An _actual _hotel."

"Christmas isn't until December," Eddie deadpans, returning with an armful of odd findings. We all laugh.

I put up a fight, but she executively decides that Eddie have his own room tonight. "Get ready," Santana orders. "You and me, we're going out." I don't protest this one, for I can't remember the last time she and I were able to have a night alone.

After we're both ready, Santana fishes a roll of duct tape from her bag, complete with an array of junk food in a plastic sack. "T.V., bathroom, food," she says in Eddie's doorway, handing him the bag. "You're not to leave this room for _any reason_. Understand?"

"Not even if there's a fire?" he jokes.

And then kisses are placed on eleven-year-old heads and doors are closing and a thin strip of tape is being placed along the frame's crease. I've seen this on our cheerleading trips before. If the tape is out of place, you know the door's been opened. Simple as that. "Still no chance of you trusting him?" I ask as we head toward the elevator.

_Ding._ The door closes. Then Santana shrugs, leans over, places the most angelic kiss to my lips, and says, "Not even if there's a fire."

* * *

Things grow gradually sappier as the night progresses. Santana holds my hand long past the point where it starts sweating. She's letting me decide which bars we step inside; which bouncers she has to swindle. "Could've sworn I wasn't getting my present until tomorrow," I say into her ear when the outside music becomes too loud.

"There's that, too," she laughs, and leads me by the hand to a table.

A guy is on stage and serenading the crowd all because Jack Daniels said it would be a good idea. The lights are dimmed in our back corner. A waitress-looking chick approaches us and I order a coke, purely because Santana said that this was vacation and if bringing Coca Cola into BSP's water-dominated world doesn't scream spontaneous, then I don't know what does.

It's apparently not enough for the waitress, who's been fluttering around with umbrella-topped drinks all night. "_And_?" she asks, annoyed.

"A straw?" I say.

Santana snorts and doubles over, even though my joke wasn't a joke at all, because she likes seeing people suffer for their stupidity. So I do the same. Twenty minutes go by. I don't think that I'm getting my drink.

"Have I told you just how _proud_ I am of you, B?" Santana asks in her teacher voice.

"I'm proud of you, too," I say. "We've been into three different bars and not a single brawl. That's got to be some sort of record." But I knock on the wooden tabletop anyway, for the night is still young.

Her face twists and hands cup over mine. "Seriously, Brittany," she pleads, and I'm afraid that our night out is about to turn into a big mushy spectacle. Complete with ugly crying and everything. "I watched that light go out of your eyes when Susan left, and I was afraid that I'd never see it again. And now that it's back…" she doesn't finish her sentence on account of Santana Lopez being a total gush when it comes to Brittany Pierce.

So I nod. And she nods. And then we're both nodding like morons until the sound system catches my attention. Rather, what Drunk Guy Number Two is belting out over it. I recognize the tune from Nationals last year. Rachel and Finn took its lead, parading down the aisles and doing Journey a pretty decent justice.

I'm led to the floor's center, and we're dancing amongst other couples. Nobody says much of anything. And though DGN2 is absolutely butchering a damn good song, choppily trying to speed the tempo, Santana and I move slowly. Swaying from side to side. "I was thinking," I begin, allowing her to lead. "When we get back to Lima, why not start looking for a two bedroom apartment? So Eddie has his own space."

"_I'm forever yours, faithfully_," the guy belts out, and I squeeze her close.

"Still worrying," she faux-condescends. "The point of a vacation is to vacate your normal life. Not do the same shit in a different state."

"I'm just saying. He can't sleep on the couch forever. And there's no way he'd make it in our bed for much longer. You kick. You snore. It's a wonder anyone gets a decent night's rest," I joke.

Santana immediately disappears, leaving me alone in a mess of dancing couples. She returns with a cellphone and I say, "Haven't you checked on him enough tonight?" She's only called, like, seven times.

Her head shakes. "I want you to call your boss and quit."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"It's late, Santana."

"Then leave a message."

"How are we supposed to get a bigger apartment without money to pay for it?"

Santana rolls her eyes. "Just do it."

Though I don't quite understand why, instinct tells me to trust her judgment. The mask of belief she wears. So I call in and leave a lengthy voicemail that probably sounds like someone has a gun to my head. When all's said and done, I'm firmly convinced that we'll be spending the next few months in that car, and oddly enough, it doesn't bug me as much as it probably should.

In a very BSP way, I sneak off when Santana goes to the restroom and sign her up for karaoke. My head believes that it'll be a great dramatic reveal. Like the ones I've seen in movies. We're both hanging out and laughing and chatting and having a grand old time when—_BOOM—_motherfucking bomb dropped. Unfortunately, my head movies rarely account for real life occurrences. So, when an announcer calls out the upcoming performers and Santana's name is included, my surprise is foiled.

"_Hell _no," she says from the bar.

"Not even for me?" I tease. "I'd never ask you for anything ever again. Because, you know, I love you _that_ much."

"Stop that," she says.

"Loving you?"

"Using it as an excuse to get away with bad ideas."

"I love you."

"Cut it out," she laughs.

"I loooooooooove you."

Santana gives me her best _Yeah, right_ look, and says, "The more you say it, the less effect it has," but eventually sighs her sigh of defeat. We then sit at the bar, scoffing at the other lowly talent that takes the stage. Poor bastards won't know what hit them.

An older gentleman in too much denim approaches us when Santana strikes a match and holds it to her cigar. "Miss, my mother and sister died of lung cancer," he says matter-of-factly.

Biting the nasty chunk of tobacco, she points a thumb to me and deadpans, "Her mom's an alcoholic." There's an awkward moment where we each acknowledge the beer bottle in his hand. "Isn't there a Nascar race you should be yodeling at right now?" The man simply picks up his beer and leaves.

"Smoking again _and_ yelling at innocent bystanders?" I note. "Either one of my twisted fantasies is finally coming true or you're nervous."

A foul-smelling cloud of smoke surrounds her head. "How else am I supposed to get that delightful rasp?"

Then her name's being called from the stage and the cigar gets stumped out. "Well?" she asks. "I'm waiting."

I take a sip of her drink before saying, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Santana groans and I finally manage a good luck kiss, nestling in on the stool and watching my best friend nervously maneuver toward the stage. She flips through a binder, showing a choice to the stereo operator.

A guitar begins. A hush falls over the once-vocal crowd.

_You were in college working part time waiting tables_

_ Left a small town, never looked back._

_ I was a flight risk, with a fear of falling._

_ Wondering why we bother with love if it never lasts._

Santana stands still on the uprising, not parading around as she usually would. I gear in, but she won't look my way. Instead, a painful grimace accompanies each lyric.

_Do you remember, we were sitting there by the water?_

_ You put your arm around me for the first time._

_ You made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter._

_ You are the best thing that's ever been mine._

The tune picks up and Santana's singing as if her life depends on it. With the same emotion from when I caught her in the car. Painful, agonizing beauty.

_And I remember that fight, two-thirty a.m._

_ When everything was slipping right out of our hands._

_ I ran out crying, and you followed me out into the street._

_ Braced myself for the 'goodbye'_

_ 'Cause that's all I've ever known._

_ Then you took me by surprise,_

_ You said, 'I'll never leave you alone.'_

I listen intently as she repeats the chorus and finishes the song. Watching in equal awe as the rest of the bar, whose inhabitants are now dead silent. Applause eventually follows her from the stage and to the seat right next to mine.

"Wow. That was kind of a sad song and sad songs make me sad and I don't want to be sad," I point out in a single breath. I'm not pushed to tears, but easily could be in a second. That is, if Santana falters in the least.

She doesn't.

* * *

We return to the hotel shortly thereafter, where Santana runs a hand over the neighboring door's crease. She then puts an ear to it before shrugging.

"And then there were two," I joke as Santana and I climb underneath the sheets. These past few days have been busy and we're both entirely wiped out. But this will probably be one of the last alone nights we have together.

I press both lips to hers for one, two, three seconds. "Hey," we whisper in unison. Two years ago, the simple exchange would've meant so much more. Now, it still possesses the same sexual connotation, but the emotions are different, I guess. Lust isn't a factor anymore. Not like it was in high school. Not with how much everything's changed. Santana must realize this, because she says, "This doesn't have to happen. It's been a long week. We can roll over and go to sleep like the old farts we are."

We both laugh. Especially at how much truth she's speaking. I lift her shirt just above the belly, playfully examining the scar that's replaced her old gunshot wound. Santana looks at me oddly when I place a gentle peck to it. "I only want what you want," I say.

"And I only want what _you_ want."

I roll over and begin drawing circles on Santana's stomach. Connecting each individual abdominal muscle to the other with an invisible line. She squirms until my hand moves higher, tracing the undersides of her breast. The "underboob", as Santana likes to call it.

And then everything falls still. Her breathing shallows under my touch.

I marvel at a seemingly at peace Santana, and for the first time in a very long while, I actually feel eighteen-years-old. Like a girl fresh out of high school, unsure of what comes next. But that's okay, because, for a split-second, it doesn't seem to matter.

"Do you remember our night in the dance studio?" I ask, breaking the trance. Santana coughs in verification, like it's a shameful topic. This comes as no surprise. Rehashing the past has never been her deal, especially when it comes to hook ups. Especially when you consider what kind of place she and I were in at that time. Emotionally, I mean.

I keep drawing. "You kept asking if I trusted you, remember? Like, it didn't matter if we were having sex on a dirty floor. One where someone could've walked in," I laugh. "You just kept asking, 'Do you trust me?'"

"And?" Santana finally chuckles. "Trust is a big deal. Particularly when you've got your hand down someone else's pants."

Giving her stomach a quick thump, I immediately propel my leg to her other side, pinning her between both thighs. "And they say our generation could use a lesson or two in romance. Viva la—uhh, romance." She then giggles like she used to. The genuinely happy kind. "I still do, by the way. Trust you. With all of my heart," I finish.

The giggling stops and is replaced by a painful, lingering silence. One where Santana stares into my eyes as if they aren't there. As if I've vanished. "Of course you do," she finally mutters, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Hey," I mutter once more, cupping her cheeks in my hands. And then we're back in the tenth grade, staring into each other with innocent longing. Childish belief serving as both a cripple and catalyst.

Santana inhales sharply before cracking a smile. Her head dips down then up before she whispers back, "Hey."

` Sophomore Brittany looks for an answer. For permission to proceed. With soft, widened eyes, Sophomore Santana nods.

All it takes is a kiss. A single, solitary kiss before something clicks. Two hands shoot their way up my back, peeling fabric from skin and removing it in one fell swoop. We never sleep in bras, which is probably a good thing, because Santana instantly darts up and begins placing kisses to the small gap between my breasts. She breathes deeply as I reach down her back, taking the second shirt out of our equation.

Santana isn't paying attention to that, though. Instead, she runs both hands over my chest, leaving no inch unscathed. Eyes remain wide the entire time. Astonished. My insides mirror her expression. Twisting and flipping and knotting themselves at a sensation they'd forgotten.

There's no need to take things slow. Not when it's been so long. Not when life has become the epitome of slow.

An arm wraps around the small of my back and I'm nudged backwards, head resting at the wrong end of the bed. Santana taps my closed knees once, opening them and settling in between. I gasp as our chests are then pressed together, her peppering light kisses in the crook of my neck. Across my collarbones. Nipping at my pulse point.

The air grows cold at a loss of contact, and I look up to see Santana staring at the door connecting ours and Eddie's room. She then smirks and returns her gaze to me. A finger traces down and tickles at the hem of my shorts as she whispers, "I'm going to need you to be quiet now, Ms. Pierce."

Her voice is teasing and utterly hot and—_God, what was I thinking after prom?_ I don't mull over my stupidity for too long, though, and muster what remains of my dancing strength. A swift flip later, and I'm on top of Santana once again.

Hovering just above her lips, I breathe, "I do believe that's your problem now."

Sitting upright in between Santana's legs, my body then freezes. Not a complete shut down, but it's definitely been a long time since we've been together like this. And where I once could've maneuvered her body as if it were my own, a lapse in memory stills my limbs.

That is, until she grabs one of my arms and begins pulling me closer. With each centimeter that passes, my brain kicks into overdrive. Sparing but a moment to drink in her details. Brunette hair splayed out to either side of her head. Deep brown eyes that I would love nothing more than to be lost in forever. It's so surreal, being here. With her. Especially since it seemed so absolute that I never again would.

The thought chokes me up. I quit moving, trying to suppress the emotions that course through me. And when I look away, Santana moves, too. The crease in her brow questioning my lapse. Searching for any sudden apprehension. "Just trying to soak it all in," I assure, caught in a whirlwind of feelings.

A flicker of relief flashes across her face. I bend at the waist and press into her lips. Our tongues wriggle in tandem as I fiddle with her shorts, gently coaxing them off of her hips. Santana lifts momentarily, aiding the process. Her hands do the same and in a flash, we're naked and pressing into each other as we used to. Bodies melding together perfectly.

Our pace quickens, teeth sloppily tugging at lips, hands fumbling every which way. She groans when I finally reach lower and cup, heat radiating the bones in my arm. I settle over her left thigh, my right hand teasingly running through her. Once. Twice. Continuously until her hips buck forward.

"_Brittany_," she says, equal in sternness and pleading.

I smile into our next kiss. And as my finger nimbly rub at her clit for the first time in ages, Santana presses an open-mouthed kiss to my neck, which makes me grin again. The rest is a blur, it seems. Moving far too quickly and at a snail's pace, all the same.

Nails claw into the backs of my shoulders, sending my middle finger in an instinctive surge inside her. Breathless whimpering fills the void. Sweat forms on the lower part of my neck, and I pull out only to add a second finger to the mix. Then we're both caught in a storm of needy rocking and palming at each other's chests. And when Santana's eyes roll back and she arches upward, gasping out broken sighs, I internally vow that it's the single greatest thing I've ever witnessed.

Tens of minutes pass like this. Minutes that feel like eons. Precious seconds of frantic grabbing, kissing, and touching.

Embarrassingly enough, the sheer sight of her eventual climax is enough to elicit the same on my part. We tangle together, locking thighs and riding the moment out.

Don't ask me why a pang of sadness suddenly fills my chest. Because it isn't the heartbreaking kind I've felt so many times before. Instead, nostalgia courses through my veins. Equally so, thoughts of the future. What comes next. How I had become so fixated on things never being the same that I hadn't taken into account how completely in love I am with the girl shuddering underneath me. How I hadn't realized before that we're Brittany and Santana, and that what we have is unwavering. How, as long as we're alongside each other, nothing ever really changes.

More minutes pass in our jumbled heap. We eventually move into correct position on the bed, Santana resting her head against my chest.

In the spirit of my newfound optimism, I mutter, "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Always," she yawns.

I take a deep breath, suddenly terrified by the idea of voicing my hopes. Because the world has this funny way of crushing them the second each takes life. Something about being wrapped in her arms, though, pushes me on. "For the first time in a very long while, I've got this _feeling_. And it's something I can't shake," I sheepishly admit. "Like, no matter how messed up this year's been, everything from here on out is going to be perfect. Our _home_ will be perfect. _We're _going to be perfect. Can you feel it, too?"

In the hours that follow, Santana never answers my question. Instead, muffled sobs crack against my body, and I cradle my best friend until we're rocked gently to sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note: **** Soooo, yeah. Firstly, if I have any Southern readers- I am from the South as well, and we must accept any and all digs at our culture with open arms. Lol.**

**Secondly, the original chapter was long as piss, so I decided that two would be more suitable. I hope that many of you caught on.**

**Thirdly, sex scenes are always weird, for I feel as though they're in invasion of privacy on someone. Regardless, this is a mature piece and it's necessary. (And we're all semi-twisted bastards, whether we admit it or not. lol) So if we could act as awesome as we did with the last and not mention it, I'd be most appreciative.**

**And as always, thank you all for taking the time to read/review.**

**JJLives: I do apologize for that, lol. I've specifically uploaded this one so late as to not interfere with your work schedule. **

**misssnodgrass: Oh, heavens no. I guess the whole affectionate deal (which I didn't realize they were uber lacking until you pointed it out) is just because lovey-dovey stuff weirds me out. Lol. But Chapter 26 would be far too late to just be 'easing them into it'. I thought the paper masks deal was needed, so many thanks. And as always, I appreciate your taking the time to read/review.**

**LoneGambit: You're something else, my friend. And not sadistic in the least. I actually was aiming for some sort of humor, considering the shit I've carried on for all of twenty-six chapters. Lol. As for your kind words, I can merely do as I always do and extend many, many sincere thanks.**

**luceroadorada: I apologize for not including a conversation, but Susan literally makes me want to throw up. Especially when I'm the one writing her. Lol. But I do thank you for looking forward to it, and dropping in to leave your kind words.**

**anongurl (Guest): *high fives back because you're great and I love you***

**insertnameherex: I say that it's never too late to hysterically laugh. Actually, 12:30 is terribly fucking late for that nonsense, so you made a good call. Lol. And as I always say, many sincere thanks for your reading/reviewing.**

**StephaniieC: Always glad to make someone laugh. Lol, and yes they are. Thanks a bunch.**


	27. Chapter 27

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters._**

**_Side Note: The songs used in last chapter were "Mine" by Taylor Swift and "Acoustic #3" by the Goo Goo Dolls._**

* * *

_Thump. Thump. Thump._ My eyes drift open to reveal a tan finger, tapping away at my forehead until it peels an eyelid back. I turn and bury my face into the pillow when the blurry figure moves to the bed's other side, administering the same treatment/wake up call.

Santana groans loudly, annoyed. "If you don't have a wheelbarrow full of breadsticks, back the fuck off." Unintelligible whispering follows. Then, in a rush and absent-mindedly, she flings the covers from our bodies.

When cold air brings me to and fully awake, Eddie is shielding his eyes. "Oh. My," he shrieks, dancing around like someone who has to pee. "Mother of," but he can't finish before Santana pulls the comforter back, shooing him away.

"Get up, Brittany," she says earnestly when the room is clear of little people.

I roll over as she frantically begins dressing, searching for garments that were tossed aside in the heat of last night. Her shorts are halfway across the room, something I'll proudly take credit for, so she opts for skinny jeans. "That ass, though," I faux-coo, sprawling out and experiencing the most glorious morning stretch. "I've got a right mind to hug your parents and congratulate them on such a job well done." But when she responds by rolling her eyes, I simmer down and ask, "Are you feeling any better today? You know, in comparison to the last few?"

"Am I ever?" she says, leaning across the bed with a half-smile and dropping a heap of clothes onto my face.

* * *

Since this is a relatively upscale hotel, breakfast is complimentary and we're sure to capitalize like the frugal people we've become. Going back for seconds and thirds. Stuffing stray napkin-wrapped biscuits and bagels into our pockets. I'm beginning to see the effects of Eddie on a once prideful Santana, who goes as far as stuffing jelly packets into her bra.

This is the last morning of our road trip, and while I'm eager to get home— (Ahh, _home._ Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?)—Santana informs me of a few last minute pit stops.

"So when's it going to be my turn to drive?" Eddie asks, leaning over the middle console, breathing our front seat air.

"When pigs fly," Santana dismisses, cutting the wheel sharply. "Ask another stupid question, please." He huffs and falls against the back seat, to which Santana cuts the wheel again, landing us in the parking lot of a seemingly abandoned building. She turns around, glares at the pouting boy, and waves a finger to her lap.

Eddie crawls back over and is at the helm, commanding the wheel as Santana accelerates. When he veers onto the main road, she corrects him. When a police car approaches from the opposite direction, she forces his head down. And when playtime is finally over, and we're parked in yet another lot, she says, "It's a wonder how you and Susan made it to Lima in one piece."

"She wasn't breathing down my neck the entire time," he quickly retorts. "Literally and figuratively." We all laugh at that.

My phone buzzes with a text message from Mike. Pictures from graduation. The glee club clade in red caps and gowns. Then one of everyone huddled over at the train station for what Santana referred to as "Rachel's dramatic sendoff".

Part of me hates that we missed it, while another is happy to be here, in the company of two moody, sharp-tongued people. People that I've grown to love dearly. "It's pretty shitty of Finn, surprising Rachel like that," I say as Santana and Eddie are pushing and shoving to be the first out of the car.

With a hand plastered to Eddie's face, Santana grunts, "Oh, spare me that conversation."

"It's still pretty shitty of him. Weren't they supposed to be getting married?"

Eddie is the first to break free. "Maybe he believes it'll help her reach her dreams," Santana says, distracted by the now bragging boy.

"Is Santana Lopez sticking up for Finnocence, of all people?" I tease. She merely looks back, pokes a tongue out, and climbs from the car.

* * *

The building we come upon looks official, slightly bigger than McKinley. I instinctively follow Santana's lead inside, where massive columns stand tall. Pillars that shadow everything else, making us tall people feel minuscule in comparison. White banisters accompany two winding staircases that surround a single reception desk. They're the more modern version of their grand counterparts, I would imagine. Steel gray and black, but nothing lackluster.

Eddie and I stand in awe as Santana forwards on to the desk, leaning over and seemingly asking the clerk for direction. She taps on the counter once, breaking our trance, signaling for us to trail closely.

Down a series of winding hallways and through a back door, we approach a smaller enclosed building. There are no windows. Only a set of double doors. Venturing through and stepping into the cool air, my eyes are greeted with a warming sight. Hardwood floors. Ballet barres running into four corners. Mirrors covering each wall. It's the picture of a home I once knew. BSP's former safe place.

A small group of people slightly older than Santana and I are gathered in a circle on the floor, performing routine stretches. Extend, bend, extend. A girl wanders our way and fetches her water bottle. She smiles warmly, to which I ask, "Do you guys typically start rehearsals this early in the year?" It's not entirely unheard of, beginning in the summer. Keeps the muscles loose.

She nods, taking a swig. "All year round, actually." _Talk about loose_, I think. "Rehearse during the summer, and once classes begin, we study during the week and compete on weekends. The exposure is remarkable. Sure, four years is a long time, but well worth it."

"Wow," I say, because it's all that I can at the moment. "This is… wow."

She chuckles. "Are you a dancer as well?"

_Well, I was and then I wasn't. My raging alcoholic of a mother converted me to her ways and then I lost my best friend and then I found her again and my mother took off and showed back up with this little bundle of joy and Santana got shot and died but didn't and then we came her. Oddly enough, there just wasn't enough time to work on my pliés._ "No, not anymore," I say.

"She most certainly is," Santana eventually chimes in, coming to my side. "Been doing it since she was little."

The girl laughs again, waving a hand to her teammates. "Well, I would offer you a try out, but they've already brought in a replacement."

I shrug and the girl returns to her group, where they all stand and begin running through some basic motions. Stuff I came out of the womb doing. All jealousy aside, this place is amazing. Every girl's dream.

Santana is off again, standing with her mouth half open before pursing both lips and squinting. I lean into her ear. "Did you bring me here to check other girls out? Because that is at least eight different levels of not cool." She eventually snaps to, not acknowledging me but looking discontented, like someone who's finally given up their fight in falling back to sleep and finishing a good dream.

We soon leave the studio, walking back across the lawn and entering a different building. One similar in size to the multitudes that surround the grassy area. In here, small classrooms are aplenty. Filled to the brim with desks and all sorts of gadgetry.

Passed these lie two more double doors, which house an enormous auditorium. Seriously, this place goes on for days. Santana and Eddie sit in the back-most row, folding their hands in a very Rachel Berry manner. I join them, taking in the sight. Row after row of tiny, connected desks. And then we each fall still in the calming silence, listening as dust collects in each crevice. That is, until the sound of a creaky door breaks our rapture.

A voice booms out, "Hey! What in the world are you three doing?!" and I'm thrown into full panic.

A suited man glares at us. Eddie tenses alongside me. Santana doesn't flinch, though, but jumps from her end seat and sprints to the man. Then they're hugging like old friends. She pulls him to where we sit, introducing, "Brittany, Eddie, this is Abbie. He's the Chancellor here. Dad and him went to college together."

Abbie shakes both of our hands. "Pleasure," he says, nodding. To Santana, he says, "Speaking of the old coot, he just stopped by my office. And honestly, I don't recall him looking so ancient this past Christmas."

They both laugh. "I'll be sure to deliver the message." Santana then shrugs at me and explains, "Dad's in town on business this weekend."

"Christmas, huh?" Eddie chimes in, climbing over me and inching closer to the man. He looks up and down, sizing Abbie up, whose gold watch reflects the room's dim lighting. "So should we prepare a list now or should I have one sent over?" Santana thumps him on the ear as the old man begins chuckling.

She sighs before saying, "We're actually about to go meet him for lunch. I'll make sure he hears about his ancientness." Then they hug a final time, and we're off yet again.

* * *

Here's the thing about this joint: it has a fully stocked cafeteria, complete with an uncomfortable amount of restaurant vendors. Seriously, the choices are astronomical. And since Dr. Lopez has stumbled into old age with nothing but women at his side, he sides with Eddie and allows the boy to choose where we feast. And since this meal is on her father's dime, we're exiled to the world of table choosing. Which isn't terribly difficult with the small amount of students in on summer session.

An unfortunate sight comes upon us when everyone's settled in with fresh slices of pizza. A rather large student strolls past, the upper portion of his ass hanging out for everyone and God to see. So much so that if you dropped a quarter down the crack of his pants, a small part of you would expect a Coke in return. Quite frankly, it's enough to kill an appetite.

"If you're not being blinded by one thing, then it's something else," Eddie mutters too loudly with his mouth full. The guy doesn't turn back, but Dr. Lopez does his best in giving Eddie the Lopez eyebrow raise. To which he finishes curiously with, "_Ooooooh. _Of course you don't know. Well, this morning, my boyish, innocent eyes were subjected to—"

I begin violently coughing the obvious cough. The please-stop-talking cough. What Santana and I do behind closed doors is not something to be discussed over lunch. It's more of a dinner conversation, really. A dinner that neither I nor Santana attend. Taking place in an alternate universe. A dinner that never actually happens. You get the picture.

Santana catches my vibe and immediately interjects, "Diarrhea, Dad. Bad burritos."

But Eddie presses on like the dumbass he occasionally can be, tilting his head to the side and saying, "What? No. I only told the cop that to—"

"_Cop_?" Dr. Lopez asks suspiciously. "Do tell why you were ever discussing your…uhh…bowel movements with a police officer."

I cease in coughing and admit, "We might have been pulled over on the way here. But—"

"Is this going to cost me anything?" he asks, waving a dismissive hand. I immediately shut my trap and shake my head. "Then I don't want to know."

We finish eating in silence, mind the occasional menial topic. Our trip. The weather. Boring grown up stuff. Santana and Eddie have reverted back to their standoffish ways, which I chalk up to an exhausting week. Despite all weariness, though, she doesn't fail to death glare Eddie to, well, death.

In the time that passes, I'm given a good look into how Dr. Lopez acts when Maribel isn't around. He speaks less. Listens more. In fact, I secretly decide that if he were an animated character, his old behind would be Eeyore. Purely because he meanders about looking disappointed with the world. As if it's always letting him down. And it shouldn't bother me when we each receive our own set of Eeyore Eyes, for Eddie and I are no children of his, but it still does.

"Have you seen the dorms yet?" he asks when all is said and done.

"Swinging through after this," Santana says shortly. She then proceeds to hug her father and place a kiss to his cheek, which is kind of a weird sight, until he sneaks a single door key into her hand.

* * *

We climb stairs and maneuver through hallways before we ever reach a much smaller version of the apartment. Santana retrieves the key and places it in the door, swinging it open as I grab her arm. "What if someone's in there?" I ask.

"Then we'll say hello?" she says sarcastically. A hand then grabs mine, and I'm being tugged inside.

If the outside was any indication, then the sight shouldn't be so surprising. It's merely a condensed version of our apartment, only without a kitchen or living room. Your average bedroom with a mini fridge. I feel sorry for the sucker that wants a bowl of Lucky Charms in the middle of the night.

"This is where everyone in the athletic program lives. Dance team included," Santana explains. Her face then twists as she says, "Bastards get their own rooms."

Eddie breathes, "You're telling me."

I pinch the back of both of their arms. "You can both share the couch, then."

We proceed to inspect the place, lifting odd objects and rummaging through them. Something catches my attention about halfway through. On the lone bed, specifically. Propped against its headboard is a rather large purple pillow with a unicorn's head photocopied to the front. It looks almost identical to the one I have at home. Which is odd, considering that Mom promised it to be one of a kind when she gave it to me.

Suddenly longing for home, for our apartment and our bed, I say, "I hope this stranger doesn't mind, but…" before pouncing on the bed. I snuggle and squeeze it until I can no more. But there's this scent. The faint smell of Santana. She usually steals my pillow at some point every night, but this? Freaky. So I'm forced to ask, "Have you been secretly hugging this pillow, too?"

She pauses. And then I'm not allowed to sniff anymore on account of her panicked hand grabbing mine yet again, leading me out of the room.

* * *

Thankfully, there's no more walking involved. In fact, Santana suggests that Eddie and I not ride with her, but on a train-looking thing that runs in constant loop around the city. So we do, pumping loose change into a small machine and settling in on the back row. Passing the various shops and restaurants is pretty cool. Each their own little world. People wandering to and fro, strictly confined to theirs. Under different circumstances, I could even see the three of us living in a place like this.

After fifteen minutes, Eddie nudges me and points to Santana, who stands nearest the water. The very spot we sat in last night. The train-looking thing, which I've been informed is referred to as a "trolley", comes to a stop at the riverside loading depot. Strangers enter as we descend.

The grassy area is now empty, as opposed to last night's fireworks show, but the temperature feels just as heavenly. A slight breeze. Cool air coming off of the river. The sun at its highest peak.

Santana meets us halfway and leans over to Eddie, saying, "Why don't you stay in the car?" His expression instantly changes. Sullen eyes meet Santana's, to which she nods, and then two arms are vice gripping their way around my waist.

"What's gotten into him?" I ask as Santana leads me down the lawn. She doesn't answer, but sits down and gently pats the grass, signaling for me to do the same.

Quiet, serene minutes pass. She eventually mutters, "It's beautiful out here."

"Truly," I agree. And then I look to her. "This trip's been great. Really. And very much needed. By far the best birthday present I've ever received."

"It's not," she begins but trails off, picking at a few blades of grass.

I do the same, choosing a long blade to tickle her ear with. She laughs. I laugh. "You know, I always feel like you're telling me secrets. Whether it's through silence or pointless rambling, I feel as if there's this deep dark world that you're letting me into." With this, I reach for her hand and begin drawing endless circles on the open palm before saying, "Tell me a secret. A real secret."

"I'm scared," she quickly admits, voice shaky. Santana then inhales deeply and asks, "Have I ever told you about the moment I fell for you?" I shake my head, having assumed it to be a culmination of the past ten years.

"Like how our lives changed so drastically. And so quickly. How, as we grew older, you had that stupid cat and Susan to worry about. How I vied for your attention. How I desperately wanted the affections of this selfless fucking girl, who I knew that deep down, I would never be like."

Santana talks methodically, as if the story is some sort of puzzle and therefore incomplete without each little piece. I pay close attention, for it feels like she's telling me secrets, the way each word slowly dribbles from her mouth. Unlocking the door to this deep, dark world that not even Santana is brave enough to face alone. So I sit quietly, allowing her to go on without interruption.

"Things were always changing, though. Tubbs died. Susan took off. The world kept getting in your way, and there was nothing that I could do. Even if I was all that you had left, and was finally getting everything I'd ever wished for, you were in such pain."

Her voice lowers and she blinks rapidly at the water. I can do nothing but squeeze her hand a bit harder. "Despite the pain, though, you continued to look at me as if I were the only person on this planet. God, I felt so undeserving. Even in that cell, I cried myself to sleep for fourteen months. Because you were so far away, and I wasn't there to stop the bad things from happening. To take your pain on as my own.

"And so, in great Santana Lopez fashion, I left," she says, voice trembling. "Coming back into the real world as this entirely different person, it wasn't enough. Not for that unicorn girl. Not for the very girl who never asked for the moon, though I so desperately wanted to give it to her." A single tears falls from her eye, and it's taking everything I have to fend off the same. "But what was I supposed to do? Stick around and hurt you with the bitter asshole I'd become, or take off and it have the same effect? I was still just as undeserving as ever. Never in my life had someone fought so hard for me. Not even my own parents. And I was _terrified._ To no end."

A boat's horn blares from across the water. It startles the both of us, eliciting the slightest jump. Santana eventually wipes her face and says through a runny nose, "I know it seems twisted now, but at the time, disappearing just seemed right. And I know that it still seems like I'm hard-wired to take off when things get rough, but maybe I am…"

In an instant, I take hold of Santana's chin and force her eyes to meet mine. "Hey. You're here, aren't you?" And then I kiss her silly because I'm a sucker for a good cliché. "And all of that stuff, it's in the past. Something we can easily let go of."

Her face sinks at my assurance. Pain with a hint of remorse. "You were right that night on the roof," she says, eyes returning to the ground. Ashamed of something. "We did get it all wrong. I did, at least. Because I spent so much time hating myself for not protecting you better, for being so terrified of losing you, that I didn't spend enough giving you my heart. And I'm _so_ terribly sorry for that."

"Santana Lopez, if you do not quit apologizing this second, I'm stealing your car and leaving you to fend for yourself," I say.

She finally smiles, eyes brightening. "Then I'll merely thank you. I'm a better person because of you, Brittany, and I'm truly grateful for that," she says. "So I'm going to ask you for three favors. Three things that I want you to think long and hard about before answering."

"Of course."

"That's my girl," she says. "Okay. Firstly, where do you see yourself, five, ten years from now?"

Without much thought at all, I quickly answer, "With you and Eddie, of course."

Her face manages to sink further into itself. "Secondly, I want you to think of how you felt on that stage so long ago."

"Fearless," I answer, smiling at the memory. "Like nobody could touch me."

Extending her pinkie, Santana asks her final favor. "Lastly, I want you to remember that feeling. And no matter what happens, I want you to pinkie promise me that you'll never let go of it. Even when everything's looking down, you'll think back to that night and remember the little girl onstage. Of the dreams she had and everything that she believed in. "

Then, looping my little finger into hers, I say, "I promise."

* * *

We spend tens of minutes in each other's silence. I eventually stretch out, using Santana as a headrest. "Are you ever going to explain what warranted this slightly uncomfortable trip down memory lane?" I ask, aimlessly fiddling with the hem of her pants. "Or is this the second part of my present? Because I must say, with a killer standardized test and that reassurance of your undying love, you may as well go ahead and pop the question, Ms. Lopez."

My neck lifts with her deep breath. "If it hadn't of been for that test, your punk ass would have never graduated. Because there's this weird thing about high school. You actually have to show up to pass. And you hardly ever did," she teases, leaning down and placing a kiss to my forehead. So I poke her belly. Hard.

She then huffs and reaches into her pocket, and I begin nervously rambling, "I was kidding, Santana. We're much too young to be married. Maybe sometime down the road, but—"

I'm cut off by the box that comes forth. It's not a small black one, though, but a familiar mixture of red and yellow. A Crayon container, with the words "_You are the best thing that's ever been mine"_ written on the top flap. I shake it once, the sound of a small object echoing inside.

In opening, I'm both relieved and utterly confused by the contents. "Are you giving me a city? Because I could've sworn that to be the mayor's job," I lightheartedly joke. But the tiny silver object is recognizable. A key similar to earlier, with a white tag that reads _341._ Then it dawns on me. "The pillow. The one from this morning. It was mine, wasn't it?"

Santana tries to smile when she nods. "It's not M.I.T or New York, but this place definitely has opportunities." And then she's explaining how all of this came to be. Dating back months ago, in the midst of our fighting.

Sue's help with Santana's parole officer, allowing the trip. Saying that she was away with the Cheerios at a cheerleading retreat. Arranging the mysterious test so I would graduate. Sending Coach Sylvester's spy tapes of our glee rehearsals and performances to the university's dance coach. Dr. Lopez pulling some strings with Abbie, just so I would be accepted. His skipping Nationals to serve as a U-Haul. Eddie and Carey's knowing but keeping quiet. A combined effort in secrecy on everyone's part.

I'm too stunned to speak, much like in the dance hall. "Wow," I finally say, dumbfounded. "_College._" Something that would've been an arbitrary thought to a younger BSP. "Tuition's expensive, though. We'd never be able to afford it," I point out.

"Don't you worry about that," she assures. "Dad's helping out with what grants won't cover. As a favor to me. Even though I'm cashed out for, like, the next twelve Christmases."

We both chuckle. "This really is something else, Santana. More than I could've ever imagined," I say. "Two college girls. And Eddie. They should make a sitcom out of this stuff. Three people, one bed, and the never-ending fight for a good night's sleep." I laugh at the idea. "But I think you've got it mixed up. Our living arrangement was supposed to expand, not condense. Though I do suppose we could make it work. Alternate sleeping on the floor. And arrange our class schedules so—"

"Brittany," she sighs.

But my mind is too far gone. Reeling over the possibilities. Figuring out what needs to be done in regards to Eddie. We could arrange our classes around him. Find an inner city school within walking distance. Get jobs somewhere downtown. "Oh, who am I kidding?" I say, answering her apprehension. "You're right. There's no chance in hell that we're giving up the bed," I laugh.

"Brittany," she says more sternly.

My mind drifts away from planning, fixating on the intense moment where I watch the once-flourishing light in her eyes fade away. Tension follows. Santana bites her hand like in the car, sunlight illuminating a pool of tears. "You probably shouldn't do that. After all, we just ate," I try joking.

In one quick breath, she says, "In exchange for her help, Sue's asked that I come be an assistant coach for the Cheerios. Summer practice begins on Monday."

"But how are you—" and then it happens. The skies grow darker. The wind ceases. In a whirlwind of realization, everything from the past couple of weeks spins into light. "_Getting their signatures buys me some time_." Assuring Eddie, "_I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere_." The constant questioning of what comes next. Never once was I mentioned, because her plans did not include me. Don't include me.

Before any further processing ensues, I'm spitting out, "No. No, no, no, no, no, no. This isn't happening. You're _not_ doing this to me. I'm not going anywhere." And then my hands are pressed into my face, trying to rub the past four minutes away.

She grabs my shoulders, fighting for my attention. "The world's been getting in your way, Brittany. Here, it won't. Here, you'll have opportunities that most kids couldn't imagine. You're so much better than the rest of us. So much better than Lima. And you deserve everything you've ever dreamed of."

Do you know what it's like to _feel_ yourself break? Have you ever seen your world come crashing down? Been forced into the audience of your own life's movie?

Because I have. It's happening right now, actually. As Santana rambles on, I'm standing on the outside, looking in, watching a scene I've seen far too many times. Girl tells girl that her future is more important than their present. Helplessness infiltrates my very being. Cripples my throat and dried sobs break free.

It's like watching your favorite childhood movie and waiting for the sad part. You spend the time fearful of what's to come. You silently hope that the outcome will change if you press play just one more time. For me, it's like watching The Lion King. It's like watching Mufasa fall to his death over and over again. It's like believing that if you hold your breath long enough, he'll make it through.

"You can't put your life on hold for us," a dulled outer voice says. "Me and Eddie, we'll manage."

Teetering on a line between the conscious and subconscious, I'm thrown at full speed back into the latter.

_Stop._ Cue my quickly-building tears. Flash to me at six-years-old, sitting with crossed legs in front of the television. Watching The Lion King and holding my breath, certain that if Mufasa can just wake up, then Dad can, too. In this time, fairytale endings are possible for everyone.

"We'll have the phone. And Skype. And once my parole's finally up—God, if it ever will be—then Eddie and I will come see you compete."

_Stop._ Cue my immense heartbreak. Flash to me at twelve, with Mom's drunken head in my lap, harsh fumes drifting up with each breath. Watching The Lion King this time, I wonder if Scar is just lost. Does he mean to hurt his brother so badly? Changes of heart must exist. Because there's hope for anyone who wants to change badly enough. At this point, a fairytale ending is still possible.

"I know this hurts you, Brittany. And it kills me to know that I'm the reason why," the voice says. "But remember that promise. Remember that feeling, and maybe this won't hurt so badly."

_Stop._ Cue my stifled breathing. Flash to recent months, when Mom first disappeared. She reappears, bringing Eddie into my life. Santana and I are slowly mending until I betray her. She is then in a hospital bed, walking the thin line between life and death. Mom is gone again. Here, fairytale endings are slowly slipping into the past.

"Are you listening to me?"

_Stop. _Cue my newly broken spirit. I am eighteen now, vaguely aware of the approaching small train. "But you just said," I absently choke out. "No. I'm not letting you go. I made that mistake once, and it's not happening again."

"No one's letting go, Brittany. No one's saying goodbye."

I'm agitated now. "If this is really what you want," I spit, "then look me in the eyes and say so." But she can't hold my glare. Just below a shout, I say, "Santana."

"It's what's best for you, B," she finally answers. "And that's all I've ever wanted." I suddenly regret asking. Because when she looks up, there is no hint of life in those deep brown eyes. No clarity, or belief, or spirit. Instead, there is time. Years and years of pain and suffering. Heartache beyond measure. The light that once guided me through the roughest patches of life is now nothing more than a match caught in some vast expanse of darkness.

Is this my doing? Is this what I've brought her to? "Is it something that I've done wrong?" I helplessly ask. "Is there something that I need to fix? Because I can. I can and I will."

She bites her hand again. "Please. Please don't make do this."

"You promised," I repeat, the words almost bringing me to my knees.

I'm sobbing now, body racking with each. Santana wraps both arms around my neck, pulling me in close. "I know I did." There is no energy to fight her off. There is nothing left. _I_ have nothing left. And then she whispers into my ear, "That's why, this time, you're the one that's going to leave."

There are a million things that I should be saying. Pleas, apologies. Anything to change her mind. But it's no use. For while Santana's mood might be a pendulum of emotion, touching only on ecstasy and intense despair, her mind is unwavering. Her decisions final.

The trolley is here. This scene is the same. Girl kisses girl. Girl coaxes girl through a small opening and onto steps. Girl looks back a final time. Desperately, she calls out in a last ditch effort, "You heard that girl from before. Four years is a long time. I could be a different person."

"One thousand, four hundred sixty days; thirty-five thousand, forty hours; two million, one hundred two thousand, four hundred minutes; one hundred twenty-six million, one hundred forty-four thousand seconds," Santana says, smiling through her tears. "I'll be counting each. Waiting. Right here, in this very spot. And when time's up, you'll come back to me, B. You always have."

When the doors close, I rush to a seat window, looking back at Eddie. Crying, too, he mouths, "_I'm so, so sorry._"

This scene is unchanging. Despite all breath holding and wishful thinking, it forever will be. Mufasa is not waking up. His brother will never see a change of heart. And no matter what kind of positive outlook I force myself to keep, I am not the same six or twelve-year-old girl.

Growing up, they don't tell you any of this. They don't tell you that an aging body's strength must derive from somewhere. From something. They don't tell you that this "something" just so happens to be every hope you've ever hoped, every dream you've ever dreamed, and any mental resilience you once possessed. They don't tell you that in exchange for years, one must pay the price of their very being.

They also fail to mention that one day, you'll figure all of this out. Through experience and time, you'll learn of these things, and it'll hit you like a fucking freight train. The realization that people are hard-wired to disappear from your life. That nothing lasts. That anything remotely decent in this world is fleeting. That anything you believe to be worth fighting for will also fight back, and will ultimately triumph.

That doing right by others doesn't necessarily make you a good person. Selfless motives aren't a deterrent for the bad, but an illusion. A falsified validation of what your future holds.

Don't ask me about "one day". Don't ask me about what comes next. Because they are one in the same. They are this moment. They are right now.

They, the teachers, counselors, principals, and parents, never told me any of that stuff. They did, however, quickly note that I wasn't the brightest. That I would never know much about anything. They said that I would forever be doomed to a life of hand-holding, as whatever unfortunate soul of the time would walk me across the street. They fed me bullshit line after bullshit line, and I ate it up straight from their bullshit hands.

But I don't need a book to tell me that Mufasa is never waking up. That Dad wouldn't wake up. I don't need a lecture to know that the villains of our lives will never seek nor find redemption. And I don't need a test to tell me that this pain I'm feeling, this slowly tightening knot in my chest, is so very real.

Brittany Susan Pierce may not be the smartest, but she understands the most valuable lesson of all.

Fairytale endings do not exist.

* * *

**Author's Note: Firstly, you guys are SOME CLASSY MOTHERFUCKERS. And I thank you each for that. With the fifth season of Glee fast approaching, I must ask that you all stay tuned for the last bit of this piece. I won't just drop the bomb on you guys and throw in that heart-wrenching "The End", but I do feel it approaching as well. So please, bear with me. And as always, I thank each and every one of you who merely reads, or reads and reviews. It means the world.**

**JJLives: Here's a midday update, just so neither of us have to stay up too late. Lol. I do think it was enough closure for her, and as far as Santana's cryptic behavior- well, it was for reason. Not necessarily good, but reason enough. I do thank you for constantly reading/reviewing, and would like to extend a happy Saturday to you.**

**StephaniieC: Always happy to make someone laugh. Lol. And as always, I thank you for such kind words.**

**mymindislikeabassship: HUZZAH FOR MY SOUTHERN PEOPLE. Lol. And I thank you for the kind words.**

**Channy2425: In due time, I'd like to think.**

**pictureofsuccess: Ahh, I do not believe I've ever seen your name pop up in the reviews. So I most certainly appreciate that, and look forward to shedding some light on everything.**

**anongurl (Guest): *gladly accepts hug even though I'm the shortest motherfucker to walk this planet* Lol. I'll tell you what. If you send me a PM, then I'll gladly give you my Tumblr information. And as always, I thank you for reading.**

**insertnameherex: Haha, no need. It was basically one long chapter. Lol. Here's your soon, (I hope it was soon enough) and I'd like to thank you for taking the time to read/review.**

**LoneGambit: (You get the lovely bottom spot because I have a lot of replying to do to you. Lol.) As do I, as far as Susan goes. I saw it as the final straw, and Brittany's ultimate 'fuck you'. And I honestly believe we all drive like that, in some respects. It does suck as far as Eddie's family is concerned, but saw it as closure enough, considering that while he is a big part of this work, he is not the sole focus.**

**In regards to lyrics, you're absolutely right. They're often annoying and useless. But I thank you for trudging through them, and trying to see the value they can add. (As a side note, if you are a writer, DO NOT...I repeat, DO NOT PUT ON "IRIS" RADIO ON PANDORA. IT WILL FUCK YOU UP AND GIVE YOU EIGHT THOUSAND SONGS TO INCLUDE. Lol.) And fear not, that light will come soon enough. I pinkie promise.**

**And to keep with tradition as well, I must thank you for such kind words.**


	28. Chapter 28

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

* * *

It took seven trips round the metal loop, but I eventually made it back to the room. Now, three suns rise and set while I lay in bed. Not bothering to assemble the sheets. Or eat. Bathe. Move. Or do much of anything, for that matter. Instead, I lay still like a corpse. Counting breaths. Flashing glances at my cellphone that lies motionless on the nightstand. Hoping that Santana will be the first to call. Hoping that she'll say what a mistake this has been, and that she's on her way to pick me up so we can begin the rest of forever together.

She doesn't.

* * *

Another moon passes, a single question haunting my thoughts: _Why is everyone always leaving?_

* * *

"Can I speak with Santana now?" I ask over the phone.

Eddie huffs loudly and pauses, breath trailing from the mouth piece. It's midnight, but there's a lively amount of muffled chatter in the background. "She's, uhh, she's in the bathroom."

"Did she get my texts? I've only sent, like, forty-two."

"I think so," he says.

"This is not a time for thinking, Eddie. What did she say?"

"What did her replies say?"

"They didn't," I bark, and then we both fall silent. "Just tell her that I called, will you?"

"I will," he breathes.

Worried that he'll hang up, I crack out, "Hey, Eddie. I didn't mean to be rude. I'm just tired and a bit worried. But I love you, buddy. And I miss you terribly."

He huffs again before saying, "You too, Brittany. You too."

* * *

Santana does not call me back, and my calls are trailing few and far between. Is it possible for things to end as quickly as they began?

* * *

On the sixth morning, I wake to the sounds of people talking. Trickling through the door's bottom crack, a voice asks, "Are you sure that this is the new girl's room?" More chattering follows.

The door opens and three people step inside. A boy and girl I've never seen, followed by the water bottle girl Santana and I spoke with at the dance studio. Each of them wanders about like dummies, arms crossed, bearing scowls. After a quick glance around their trio, waiting for the other to speak up, the water bottle girl clears her throat. "You missed practice."

"And the sky is blue," I point out like a total bitch.

"Coach wants to see you at today's," she says. "We need to fill you in on the steps."

I groan, content with spending the next four years in this very position. When they don't leave, I throw on a loose tank top and pair of sweatpants. We venture through the hallways and across the courtyard, entering through the double doors where my teammates are stretching. Hip hop plays softly over the sound system.

No one speaks to me, and I give them like treatment. The coach, a middle-aged man with already graying hair, steps inside and barks order, to which everyone pairs up across the floor. I move to the side when the music grows louder and each pair begins moving in tandem.

They're amateur moves at best. But I keep quiet, watching intently, memorizing each step. And after the first run-through, I take the boy from earlier's arm and mimic the routine to a tee.

After two hours' work, we're allotted a break. I'm fishing around for my phone, anxious to see if there are any missed calls, when the constant stream of music flips from its upbeat tempo to something much slower. A sultry, girlish voice then proceeds to drone on about dreaming with a broken heart and how waking up is the hardest part and how she's gone, gone, gone. I don't know why, but it's terribly annoying. So, in a furious bout, I storm over and rip the fucking stereo from its fucking wall. "Fuck you, John Mayer," I say just loudly enough for everyone to hear.

I'm then sitting on the outside hallway floor, rocking back and forth like I've seen in the movies. It doesn't work. The tears come. Slowly and stealthily. Memories of these past however many days doing nothing to stop them. The studio door creaks. A head pokes out. "I don't know what's going on, but Coach thinks that maybe you should take the rest of the day," the head says. Not needing a second affirmation, I'm up and moving through the hallway. That is, until the head calls out another time, stopping me. "Some of us are going out tonight. Thirsty Thursday. You should tag along, if you're feeling up to it."

I quickly turn on a heel and ask, "Will there be alcohol?"

The head laughs. "Does a bear shit in the woods?"

Clueless as to what the reference means, I nod and say, "I'll be there."

* * *

"She's been in the bathroom for an awfully long time," I say to Eddie, who is ducking and dodging every attempt I've made at speaking with Santana. "Just put her on the phone."

"I can't," he says, torn.

Loudly, I say, "Then tell her that I'm standing outside of a bar right now, and the temptation to drink again might be too much."

Eddie groans. "Please don't make me do that." Loud noises follow. My message must have gone through. "_No, no. Don't cry_," he coos away from the phone. "Great. She's crying now."

"Then put her on."

"I just—I can't," he says. "Please understand that I would if I could."

How? What in the world could possibly be preventing him from letting me speak with Santana? A crowd passes, their joking and laughing growing louder with each step. "Sorry about that," I breathe.

"Wha—what?"

I cover the mouth piece. "I love and miss you both terribly."

"You too, Brittany. You too."

* * *

When we're finally allowed inside, I realize that this is the same bar Santana and I visited the night before she left. Our group of four sits at a raised table, everyone but me hooting and hollering. I'm just here, hands folded atop the surface, feeling guilty as hell for what I said.

Someone parades around onstage, waving the microphone every which way as they attempt karaoke. Butchering a song I've never heard. From the floor, a single person smiles up at the performer. Instantly, I'm the most jealous girl in the world.

And then I'm sad, thinking about Santana and our last night together. Her ghost dances around with the microphone, belting out each lyric with the upmost verve. I have to shake my head two, three times to get rid of her image. It works to no avail. Brunette hair wisps back and forth. A nimble hand presses to her chest with every deep note. Even if my mind is playing tricks like at the beginning of this year, when I though Santana was roaming the halls of McKinley, it's still pretty haunting.

So I jump and rush from our table. No one notices.

My legs pump hard in carrying me as far away as they physically can. My lungs scream for air. I keep running. At the sidewalk's end sits a towering mass of steel. It extends as far up as the eye can see. I place a hand to the rusted metal ladder, giving it a firm tug, and begin to climb. Up, up, up. As far away from the real world as possible.

The wind sharpens with each step. The shaky frame sways under its force. I eventually reach the top platform, perching my butt on its edge.

_What is happening to me? Is this what dying feels like? People that reminisce from their deathbed; is this what they talk about? Past regrets acting as ghosts that haunt our presents?_ Minutes go by, and these thoughts are all that prevail. Even as I look into the darkness, praying for clarity. Give me pain. Give me malice. Give me ecstasy. Give me bliss. For God's sakes, give me _something._ Because right now, BSP isn't really feeling anything at all.

Footsteps echo into the night. I don't search for their origin before a voice says, "I sure hope you aren't planning on jumping."

The voice belongs to a younger man, somewhere in his mid-twenties, I would imagine. His unhealthily thin body clings to the ladder, struggling under layer after layer of fabric. Three separate coats, despite it being the dead of summer. I peek over the edge, where a shopping cart full of odd items is parked behind a bush, out of sight to the naked eye.

"Nah. With my luck, it wouldn't result in anything serious enough to warrant going home," I breathe. When the stranger pulls himself onto the platform, I finish with, "I don't have anything to give to you."

He laughs, shakes his head, and digs two items out of the second coat's pocket. On one side, a stray kitten, no older than a couple of weeks is pulled free. I immediately recognize that it's a girl. She's asleep. One the other side, a brown bag. Tucking the kitten into the crook of his left elbow and unscrewing the Mason jar with his right hand, the strange man takes a long swig, grimaces, coughs, and extends it my way. I shake my head, eyes trained on the animal that rests unsteadily on his arm. "Smart girl," the man says. He hacks violently again before asking, "Why not?"

"Because I just don't?" I retort, assuming he's searching for some type of handout.

"Why aren't you jumping?" he clarifies. "And why can't you go home?"

I give my best Santana look and point out, "That's fucked up."

"A lot of things are," he chuckles, coddling the baby animal like a child. Then another swig. "Is it fucked up that you can't leave, too?"

"It's complicated."

"A lot of things are," he repeats.

"Yeah," I sigh before realizing that I'm sitting sixty plus feet in the air with a total stranger whose motives are unknown. Who allows the conversation to progress far too quickly. Who places a sleeping kitten into my lap. Who falls well into the category of people with creepy vans and free candy. Annoyed at the realization and my imminent doom, I say, "Did you follow me or something? Because I'm really not in the mood to be mugged right now." _Yeah, because that'll work._

The guy laughs again and sits beside me, legs dangling freely in the wind. "Nah," he playfully mimics. "Just trying to figure out what brings a stranger into my lovely abode."

I glance around the platform, apparently having missed a large blue tarp that's attached to a handful of crisscrossing beams, providing a makeshift tent. Inside is a deconstructed cardboard box, another tarp balled up beside it. "Life," I say half-heartedly like the hackneyed bag of bones I've become. "You're possibly the most cliché homeless guy I've come across. Probably drinks too much. Rescues small animals. Sounds like my kind of company. You got room for one more in that tent?"

He laughs again, and I decide that this is by far the cheeriest bum I've ever met. The Jubilant Hobo pets the cat in between the ears, stirring her awake. "I'm afraid there isn't even enough room for Lady and myself. She says it's my turn to sleep on the ground," he jokes.

For whatever reason, I decide to trust the dude. Because any kitten rescuer is okay in BSP's book. So, in full faith, I ask, "Why not both of you stay on the ground? At least it's safe. What's so great about up here?"

TJH, as I've decided to call him, seems pained in my asking. His face twists. Kind of like Santana's would. Deeply inhaling, the guy takes another swig from his drink and shrugs. "I like to keep an eye out on things." THJ then points across the vast field, his finger settling on tiny dots in the distance. Specks against the darkness, gathered around a small ball of orange. Smoke slowly drifts into the air. Starting at the leftmost side, he names off the dots. "Brother, his wife, nephew, nephew, niece, mom, dad. Have these dinners about once every week."

"Is there something that I'm missing?" I ask.

TJH shakes his head. Another swallow and then the bottle is chunked over, crashing to the ground seconds later. He burps. "My invites sometimes get lost in the mail."

"That's shit, man."

"That's life, man," he says, mimicking my tone.

But I recognize the pain in his voice and know better. Having experienced this same kind of deflection with both Eddie and Santana, and I also understand that some things are better left untouched. Unsaid. "Is it tough, watching?" is all that I ask.

"It's always difficult, loving people from afar. But I send them good vibes every day," he jokes, slapping an open hand to the top of his head and wiggling four fingers.

This is the first time I've laughed all week, and god, does it feel good. When the giggling finally subsides and my breathing returns, I ask, "Would you go down there if you could? Not saying that you _can't_, but assuming…"

"Hypothetically speaking," he begins with a newly-restored grin, "if I hadn't of been such a young, stubborn jackass, then yes, I would be down there."

"Sounds like someone I know," I breathe.

"Any chance it's the same person you're sulking over now?"

I sigh loudly, not wanting to delve too deeply into the issue that's become of Santana. The painful, heartbreaking issue. Tip-toeing around the subject, I answer, "_Hypothetically speaking_, it goes something like this… Imagine waking up in the middle of the night and having to pee terribly. Like it's killing you, how much you have to pee. So you get up, and then you're fumbling around in the dark, using the wall for the guidance as to not get hurt in the chaos. The wall would normally be an inconvenience, but at this point, it's your saving grace. You keep moving, hand plastered to the barrier, the need to piss growing with each step, until finally, you feel something. And you flip this something on, knowing good and well that it will solve your momentary problem, only to find that you're not in the bathroom, but standing directly in front of the refrigerator."

I sigh again, picking up a small pebble from the iron grate and chunking it as hard as I can. "All of a sudden, you're back to where you started. Square fucking one."

"Hmm. Pee. Nice analogy," TJH says. "Allow me to ask then, do you quit at that point? Or do you keep searching for this hypothetical light switch?"

"You've got two options," I say matter-of-factly, encouraged by his inclusion. Like a school teacher or something. "You either ignore the pain and wake up in a pissy mess of your own creation, or keep relying on the wall and pray that you'll eventually find relief. Either way, you'll eventually figure out that the only thing worse than being out of love is the pain of being in it."

THJ doesn't immediately respond, but gathers the kitten from my arms, sitting down and reaching into his pocket. A tiny mouth begins nibbling at a piece of beef jerky. This kind of upsets me, considering that beef jerky is all that Lord Tubbington would tolerate when I put him on the Atkins diet. Lady, as THJ calls her, doesn't appear to be putting up much of a fight, though.

"So, kid," he begins. "Are you going to tell me who's causing your troubles or are just going to pretend that you climbed up here to talk about bladder control?"

And with this, I breathe deeply before delving into the troubling world of one Brittany Pierce and Santana Lopez.

* * *

"That Susan character is a tee-total asshole," THJ says, chewing on his own piece of beef jerky. He's been listening intently until now. Nodding at the high points. Remaining motionless at the lows. All as I explain everything that's brought me to this point. A solid ten-minute explanation that leaves me feeling a bit lighter with its close. "I'm not too fond of that Santana character, either," he continues. "The biggest asshole, in my book."

"She's not," I say defensively.

He then sing-songs, voice dipping and rising with each syllable, "Tee-to-tal ass-hole."

The remark is utterly annoying and reminds me of high school, where everyone was so quick to pass judgment on Santana. Not like she's been a saint or anything, but at least her actions have been somewhat justified. "If you say that again, I'll push you off of this tower and won't think twice about it," I spit.

TJH merely shrugs, leaning over and looking below. It's a long fall. He then lights a cigarette, smiles with all teeth, and says, "Doesn't really mean much if no one's around to see, yeah? Kind of like all of those _flattering _things you had to say about not-an-asshole-Santana. Doesn't mean much if she doesn't hear them."

"She's not," I repeat a second and final time. "We used to talk all the time, and now it's only ever when we're trying to sort through a problem. Which happen _a lot._ But things, they just aren't simple with her. Not so black and white. Instead, there's this massive gray area and it leaves you forgetting which way is up and which is down. "

"Like being stuck in the dark, huh?" he jokes, taking a drag. "You know, when you really have to pee?"

I simply laugh. "Yeah. Something like that."

Tapping his chin and slipping another piece of food to Lady, TJH asks, "Do you believe in the Circle of Life, kid? Ever heard of it?" I nod, once again leveraging the usefulness of my favorite movie. "It goes on forever, you know."

"Forever's a long fucking time."

"HA!" he shouts. "Why, forever is tomorrow. Don't you see? It's the next day. And the day after. And the many that follow."

"I suppose," I say.

Another drag. "Damn right you do. The question is, deep down in that hypothetical mind of yours, where will you be when that forever comes?"

I sigh, "I'd like to think with Santana, but that doesn't seem to be happening."

"And why not?"

"_Because_," I insist. "Weren't you listening? She said that she was terrified of letting me go, and what does she go and do? Dumps my ass in bumfuck nowhere. That's what. No, Santana's made it very clear that forever doesn't matter."

"You don't strike me as a dummy, but I've been wrong before," he says with a shrug. TJH then rests his chin on the railing, staring off at the tiny dots as they play and dance around their fire. With remorseful eyes, he looks to me. "Fear just so happens to be the single most influential force on this planet. It has the power to dictate our actions in all walks of life. More than pride, anger, or joy, being afraid can make or break a person. So, if you find someone—asshole or not—who's willing to swallow that fear, then maybe they care more than you think. 'The more you suffer, the more it shows you really care, right?"

"Is that Gandhi?" I ask.

"The Offspring," he says, laughing. TJH looks at me as if I'm supposed to have some aha moment before shaking his head, disappointed. "You kids…"

I'm too busy thinking about his Santana rationale, though. It's not that simple. It can't be. Nothing ever is. There's always something getting in the way, making life more complicated than it ever should be. Like dumb commitments to remembering your eight-year-old self. Or the fact that we never communicate these issues. We used to talk about everything, and now, it's only ever to sort through a problem.

"I made a promise, though," I say pathetically.

"Is that really the issue here?" he returns. "Are you really unsettled by the idea of going back on your word, or is there any chance that it has something to do with upsetting this girl? Maybe she wouldn't appreciate you going back?"

A knot tightens in my chest. The urge to cry increases. "Maybe? But that's just the way it is, though," I choke out like it's the biggest truth of all. "People get mad, they leave. They leave and then they don't come back. They don't come back and then you're all alone. I can't afford to let that happen. Not this time." A pre-cry sniffle breaks free.

TJH smiles and shakes his head at the ground. "Like I said, forever's happening whether you're up here, down there, or with that girl. And trust me when I say that forever doesn't give a shit about petty promises. Something tells me that Santana won't, either. But it's your decision, kid. Are you going to piss your pants or not?"

I stand up and stretch, muscles thankful for the release. Suddenly, everything begins feeling different. No better; no worse. Just _different._ And when my foot is secure on the ladder's topmost rung, I say, "Thanks for the talk, guy. And, you know, for not murdering me."

"Likewise," he chuckles.

When I reach ground level, TJH's head juts out one last time as he yells, "Hey!" I look up. "You're not dead, are you?"

Cupping both hands around my mouth, I shout back, "Who knows?! It's been a long week!"

He nods before saying, "You're going to be all right, kid. You're going to be alllllll right."

* * *

It's late, so I don't bother swing back by the bar. Instead, I assume that they'll be fine with their own devices and dart towards campus. Channeling my inner Eddie, I manage my way into the university's main building, sitting just outside of the chancellor's office.

_Maybe he'll be able to shed some rationale-minded light on my situation,_ I think, propping my head against the wall. And when morning rays of sunlight shine through a window across the hallway, I check my phone. It's only six-thirty, so I continue waiting for someone to show. The first is a janitor who gives me an odd look, but bats his eyes and wanders away. Must be custodial code, not calling the cops on a fellow janitor.

Slowly but surely, various workers filter inside. And when eight o'clock rolls around, a familiar face turns the corner. "Brittany?" Abbie says, stepping over me and sliding a key into the office door.

I follow him inside, where ancient wood and brass are bountiful. Dust collects in every corner. Trophies and diplomas litter the walls. As it turns out, Abbie's name is not Abbie at all, but Abner Wilson. I don't mention that I'd change it, too.

"What can I do you for?" he asks, plopping a stack of folders onto the desk.

I sit across, twiddling my thumbs nervously. "That's the thing. I don't really know." Abbie's busy shooting me a quizzical look when a particular photo on his desk catches my eye.

The picture is one of a much younger Abbie, flashing a thumbs up to the camera. Beside him, an eerily familiar character does the same. His mannerisms are those of someone I've met before, but I can't quite place who. That is, until I do.

"Twenty-second birthday," Abbie says in regards to the picture, momentarily relieving my stupor. "I remember that like it was yesterday. My brother, Mark, showed up at my apartment and said, 'Come on, loser. We're going skydiving'. Subtlety wasn't his strongest suit."

"Any chance you have kids?" I ask.

He nods. "Two boys and a girl."

"Cook out with your parents often?" I ask again.

"About once a week," he says suspiciously. "How—"

I put a hand up. "Just a hunch," I say. "You strike me as the type. Anyway. This brother of yours, was he crazy? Did he frequently say things that didn't make sense?"

Abbie chuckles. "Only every once in a while." _Just my luck_, I think. _The one who person who says that it's okay to forget, that it's okay to be someone else, that I don't constantly have to be this esteemed version of myself; of course he'd be a total fucking loon._ "Sadly, though, Mark passed away two years ago. So if he's spouting off crazy talk then the only person hearing it's the man upstairs."

Oh. Talk about a plot twist. Considering that the man I spoke to last night may or may not have faked his own death, I decide to gingerly dance around the topic. "Was he the type to climb large metal structures and, you know, sit on them?"

"Heavens no," Abbie quickly says as if it's the most arbitrary notion of all.

"Because he's dead? Because he'd be a zombie?"

"That, too," he laughs. "But ever since we were kids, Mark's been terrified of heights. Wouldn't go that high if you paid him to."

_The bastard. _ Fondly, I mutter, "I bet he would."

"What was that, Brittany?" _Bastard. Bastard. Bastard, bastard, bastard._

_Maybe, just maybe, TJH was on to something. Maybe he wasn't as insane as I gave him credit for. _Jumping from my chair and heading for the door, I look back to a wide-eyed Abbie before answering, "Nothing."

* * *

I sprint in a bee-line from Abbie's office to my now former dorm room. Everything I could possibly need easily fits into one bag, which I sling over my shoulder and take off with. In the hallway, Water Bottle Girl slowly moves, palm gingerly pressed to her temple.

"Can I borrow your car?" I ask, sure to not agitate her hangover by speaking loudly. "I need to pick up some things for this weekend." There's a showcase tournament for the colleges in the area, and though I'm not performing, I'm required to go along. Thankfully, WBG in too much pain to ask questions. So, with keys in hand, I make a final stop before leaving this city for good.

At the sidewalk's end, all traces of Mark have been wiped clean. His buggy has vanished. There is no tarp at the tower's peak. My time is dwindling away quickly, so I wiggle four fingers above my head, hoping that wherever they may be, he and Lady receive nothing but good vibes.

* * *

Since Brittany Susan Pierce is not her mother and therefore does not condone the thievery of automobiles, I leave WBG's car parked outside of the bus station. I don't give it much more thought when I situate in a seat nearest the bus's rear and immediately begin preparing a speech. Ten hours is a long time and should provide ample opportunity for fine tuning.

At some point, as the sun begins slowly falling from its perch, my buzz does, too. The excitement of a grand return is replaced by anxiousness. Nervous fidgeting. And then, as the setting sun finally does, my thoughts slip away. Instead of mere consciousness, one of BSP's intricate mind movies begins to play.

"_I'm sorry that it took a lengthy conversation with a homeless man to muster the nerve to say this, but it's weird, because we only ever seem to talk when something goes wrong. Our words are wasted trying to sort through problems we've created, rather than (). So I'm going to tell you what's on my mind and in my heart, and I just want you to listen._

_ "You see, I've always had this idea in my head of how things should be. Little movies that play over and over again. Sometimes they're fairy tales. Sometimes they're horror stories. And very rarely does the real world match up to either, but that's okay. Because fairy tales aren't necessary. Not for us. Not for Santana and Brittany._

_ "The truth is, Santana, that I will always choose you. Even when you don't want me to, I will. And when you feel as though I shouldn't, I still will. Because forever's too long a time to spend doing anything but._

_ "And before you ask, my answer is yes. I've never felt surer about anything in my life. That little girl from so long ago doesn't matter anymore. What comes next Does. Not. Matter. Not if you're not there._

_ "It's tough, figuring out what you want in this life. But I've decided that I just want you, Santana. I don't want to say goodbye. Not anymore, at least. Instead, I want to say 'goodnight' as I fall asleep in your arms after a long day. I want to say 'good morning' as I wake up next to you after a not-long-enough night. And I want to say 'good riddance' after we fight about dumb stuff. That's not too much to ask, is it?"_

These are all of the things dream-Brittany admits to dream-Santana. The job that awake-Brittany should be handling.

My eyes flutter open to a wide-eyed young lady sitting beside me. Her face is drained of all color, settling in on a flushed shade of white. I suddenly realize that this is not a dream at all. Because unlike my dreams, I am not spouting off dark secrets to a talking pineapple, but doing so to a complete stranger. And unlike the pineapple, this young lady does not offer advice. She blankly stares at me, as if I've asked for the answer to every question of the universe.

"Well? Too forceful? Not abrupt enough?" I ask, attempting to play the charade off. "Seriously, it's like you're not even trying. I NEED ANSWERS, WOMAN." Clutching her bag tightly, she gets up and shuffles down the aisle, taking a seat in the front. "GIVE AND TAKE. IT'S ALL ABOUT THE GIVE AND TAKE," I call out. She doesn't turn around.

When the bus finally screeches to a halt hours later, everyone files off into the terminal, greeting those who wait. I have no one expecting me, and therefore have speedy way of tackling the last leg of my trip. Walking is the only option.

I'm about two hours in, powering along the interstate's shoulder, when a car horn blares from behind. It's similar to the other seventeen, so I pay no mind. That is, until lights veer my way. _Are you kidding me?_ I think. _On her journey back into Santana Lopez's arms, tonight is the night that the heroic BSP lands her picture on the cover of a milk carton._ I tense up, unsure of what to expect.

A raspy voice eventually calls out, "You wouldn't let me shoot you from a cannon, but you'll go out alone in the dead of night?"

I turn to find Sue's upper half dangling from her open window. Without giving her much choice, I scurry toward the passenger side door, only to hear it click into locked position. A finger then signals to the trunk, which pops on, revealing boxes and boxes, overflowing with red Cheerios uniforms. "You smell like road kill and this car's an antique," she says. "Change." And so I do, right in front of oncoming traffic and God and everybody else.

"A lot of work went into your acceptance," Sue scolds when we're back in the car, "and here you are, throwing it away."

"Sorry," I mutter.

"How is it that you two have caused the most trouble of any of my cheerleaders, and you're not even on the team?"

"Sorry," I mutter again.

"You're going to be especially sorry if you're sudden surprise hinders Santana's coaching abilities in the least."

"Yeah. Sorry."

* * *

As we barrel toward Lima for the next forty-five minutes, Sue continues berating me and I keep apologizing. It's become so routine, saying I'm sorry. Frankly, I'm a bit tired of apologizing for things. Especially when I'm not even sorry.

Pulling onto the Lima exit ramp, she glances at me and asks, "You do understand what I'm saying, right?"

I nod-shake my head. "You do understand that I'm not going to apologize for choosing Santana, right?" We ride right into Lima Heights without saying another word.

Since being rude to people usually throws me off of my game, and now is when I need most to be on it, I lean over and place a slobbery kiss to Sue's cheek, thanking her and making the world right again. Talk about one freaked out woman.

On the curb in front of our building—the very spot I drunkenly sat in forever ago—I sit down, nervously twiddling my thumbs. Rehearsing, rehearsing, rehearsing. Working up the courage to climb those stairs, knock on that front door, and profess my need for Santana. As dumb as it sounds, I'm completely lost. Will she be upset? Angry at my leaving school? Will she slam the door in my face and tell me to leave?

She shouldn't, of course. But that's the thing about Santana Lopez. When you get comfortable and think, if only for a second, that you understand her; well, she manages to prove that, in actuality, you didn't have a single fucking clue.

I need to get over the fact that climbing the stairs would feel like tackling Everest in flip flops. I need to swallow the lump in my throat. I need a steady voice. I need reassurance. Hell, I need Santana's advice on how to approach Santana.

And when the slightest hint of courage comes along, I'm about to jump up, in fear that it might pass with the wind. And when I'm about to jump up, someone ungraciously plops down next to me on the curb, saying in a throaty voice, "You know, the whole point of going to school is _staying _at school."

Suddenly, security feels like insecurity. Warmth smells of stale cigarettes and moisturizer. Long tan fingers flutter in front of my nose. "Earth to Brittany."

A cloud of smoke engulfs Santana's face. One day she's kicked the habit; others, she's a friggin' chimney. Not like my mouth functions properly enough to point this out, anyway. Remember that genius spiel I had prepared on the bus? Poof. Vanished. All of those heartfelt words? Gone. BSP's thoughts are the tumbleweed, her actions the lonely landscape.

The tumbleweed unravels in the slightest, allowing, "There was something I needed to tell you, and you weren't picking up the phone."

Silence. "And?" she asks, taking a drag from the cigarette.

"I'm—"

"You're?"

This is the exact moment in which ten of the simplest, most confusing words spill from Brittany Pierce's mouth. "Well, you make me feel like I have to pee."

Half-smirking, Santana takes a last drag from her cigarette, tossing it out into the street. "Well, _you_ look like shit."

"But I came back."

"Yeah," she breathes. "Yeah, you did. A little early, though."

"You know I've always been shit at reading clocks," I quickly say, trying to make light.

"Yeah," she breathes again. "Yeah, you have." And then, with a loud huff, Santana stands up from the curb and walks away. The last exhale of smoke trickles in following. I'm not sure what to make of this, for my tumbleweed thoughts are as complexly intertwined as ever. The kind that are so jumbled, the rest of your body forgets how to operate, dedicating its efforts to seeking clarity. Such clarity is a candle in the wind, it seems. Teardrops in the rain or whatever. Here and then not.

No grand awakening occurs when Santana places her foot on the staircase's first step. There is nothing divine about the way she looks back at me, eyes free of pain. "Well? Do I have to draw a map, or are you going to make me carry you inside?" she eventually calls out.

"Wait," I protest, wiggling my head to make sure that this isn't some sort of dream. "That's it?"

Santana shrugs. "That's it. I trust you, B."

"I trust you, too."

"And I'm tired of fighting over unimportant things."

"Me too." A tense moment passes. One where I'm trapped in between optimism and disbelief. Eventually, I say, "Umm. All right?"

She doesn't flinch before smiling and nodding. "All right."

And that's it. I follow her inside, wrap Eddie up in a big ole' hug, and give Santana the world's best BSP kiss. It's simple, it's easy. It makes sense. And it's good enough for me.

* * *

Two weeks pass in this dreamy bubble of ours. Eddie wondered why it took me a full week to come back. Santana constantly assures me that she's glad I did. But every morning, my version of a happily ever after unfolds a bit more. Dreams are funny like that. How they manage to come true, even when you didn't know that they were yours to begin with.

Santana further exemplifies this point by shifting uncomfortably in bed and muttering, "My vagina has a heartbeat." Have I mentioned that _this_ is the girl I've chosen to spend eternity with?

Eddie is up early, too, because something knocks over in the kitchen. He yells out, "We're good!"

"Maybe I should get dressed and check on that," I say.

She rolls over, wrapping an arm around my stomach and pressing her naked chest into my back. "Oooooor," she purrs. Gentle kisses are then placed to my shoulder and the backside of my neck.

"But the cows need milking," I protest when her efforts move to nibbling on my ear. "And the hogs need feeding. And Eddie very well may be burning the apartment down as we speak."

"We've got insurance," she teases, sitting up, swinging a leg over, and straddling my stomach in one swift motion. A clap of thunder suddenly rattles the bedroom walls. Droplets of rain tap their way across the window. Santana cranes her neck, peering outside. Enraptured by the storm. She then pats my belly and says, "Adventure time. Follow me."

As she collects and dresses in non-matching clothes, I state the obvious. "But it's raining."

"Says the girl who spent two rain-filled weeks on my roof," she chides. "Now get your scrawny ass up and follow me, OR SO HELP ME GOD."

Though it's a completely empty threat, I dress and take her hand, following where it may lead. Eddie doesn't tag along, for he's too fixated on working in the kitchen, obviously eager to become homeless yet again.

Santana and I venture alone into the storm, walking slowly as lightning crashes all around. "Considering that we'll probably be dying tonight," I begin as she pulls me down an adjacent sidewalk, "just know that there's no one I'd rather be electrocuted with than you, my dear."

"Ha," she scoffs. "Been there, done that. Don't plan on going back for a _long_ time."

We both laugh well into Dr. Lopez and Maribel's backyard. Lights are on in the house, but they're both pretty old and don't hear so well. Like the cheerleaders we'll never truly cease to be—even if Sue had every intention of demoting Santana to the bottom of the pyramid before that fateful night at Karofsky's—I lift Santana to where she reaches the gutter, pulling herself up. And with some effortless scaling of the house's side, I join.

We lay on our backs, soaking in wave after wave of pelting rain. In some time, my head finds Santana's chest and her hand finds mine. "_If I lay here; if I just lay here. Would you lie—" _she begins but quits singing, laughing as she begins choking on water.

I laugh, too. And then we're both caught in a fit of giggling. One that I'm sure even her parents can hear. No one comes. Instead, our clothes soak through. We begin shivering together. The rain falls fast, blinding anything out of a five foot radius. Rumbles of thunder grow louder with each passing second. And for some reason, none of it matters. I could (probably will) catch a terrible cold and it would be well worth the time spent laughing with Santana.

Because there's this weird thing that happens every moment I'm with her. I constantly re-learn that everything leading up until now has been worth it. Worth us.

The pain; the suffering. The laughs; the tears. The loss; every gain. All have been the building blocks of this very moment. Two weeks ago, a homeless man told me that forever is tomorrow. Forever is today. Forever is now.

With that in mind, this time I don't make the mistake of mentioning perfection. Because it would be a lie and Brittany Susan Pierce is not and never will be a liar. Maybe shit at keeping her promises, but that's whole other story. Perfection, though—it's fleeting. Practically nonexistent. Especially when you consider everything Santana and I have done to each other. All of our lies. The betrayal and the fights. Managing to knock heads over the most menial things.

No, this time we are Brittany and Santana, and we're anything but perfect. This time, I am Brittany Susan Pierce, an eighteen-year-old who just so happens to have found forever and managed to ignore all notions of transcendence.

So this time, I clutch the love of my life's hand a little harder and fearlessly whisper, "Everything's going to be okay. We're going to be okay, aren't we?"

And this time, Santana doesn't burst into tears, doesn't falter, and doesn't avoid my question. Instead, with a smile in her voice, she whispers back, "Yeah, B. I believe we are."

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__**All right, dudes. Firstly, I'd like to deeply thank you all for the reviews. Normally, I individually thank you each, but I'm a bit pressed for time now. Please proceed to the next chapter for, well, just do it.**_

**luceroadorada_: _I'd like to think that this is her perfection. Lol.**

**misssnodgrass: Lol. My own brand of fluff? Oy vey. This'll have to do. Haha.**

**JJLives: Always glad to be of service to those who are dragged into "excruciatingly boring time". Lol. Always glad.**

**Channy2425: *was so sad. Lol.**

**StephaniieC: No worries, homie. I've got your back. Lol.**

**anongurl (Guest): *flips my shit because of how much your reviews make me laugh/smile***

**Linds2012: I do apologize for that. Never want to make someone's heart hurt. But I do thank you for such a lovely sentiment. Lol.**

**insertnameherex: I should be flattered when people say that they're close to tears with this, but it also kind of breaks my heart, too. Lol. And I couldn't possibly leave you with that heartache, so here you are, my friend. (Btw, the long ones always make me smile. No worries. Lol.)**

**LoneGambit : Don't we all want to slap her in the face? Hell, I've always known what terrible shenanigans I was going to throw them into, and still managed to hate each character at times. Lol. I did my best to bring it home. (PS, the longer, the better. I dig when you guys have opinions. Lol.)**


	29. Fourteen Months Later

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.**_

* * *

_Fourteen Months Later_

If I told you that one day is today, would you believe me? Would you entertain the idea of me, Santana, and Eddie carrying on semi-normal lives? Would it sound too arbitrary to say that nothing remotely devastating has happened to us in fourteen months?

It's somewhere around midnight. Santana and Eddie are away at her abuela's for the weekend, allowing me the serenity of an empty apartment. Though whenever I get the chance, I like to come out here and sit. Think about our lives fourteen months ago. Try and figure out at what point we became the people that we are.

I never can, though. Especially when you consider every factor; every cause and effect. How we can begin as blocks of the roughest stone, and as each individual circumstance and fraction of time chisel away at that block, we eventually emerge as finished pieces. Works of art.

The towering lights flicker on, one by one. Gradually, handfuls of men, women, and children take the rugged field. For about two hours, they'll play on the unkempt area. Their smiling faces will not once fall victim to the mounds of grass, gravel, and dirt that litter all over. Those who don't participate will not fall short in excitement, but will cheer from outside the surrounding fence.

This only ever happens on the weekends. Never on school nights. For I recognize a few of the children and parents, many of which are in Eddie's class. One of the older men is one of Santana's professors at Lima Community College. A friend of his instructs my dance classes at the community center.

Sometimes, when Santana and I fight, this is where I come. My own little safe corner of the world. If things grow hectic around the apartment—I'm here. If Santana and I get into an argument, and she yells, "Fine!" and slams the bedroom door shut; and if I mutter back "Fine."—I'm here.

Should this ever happen, it only takes us about thirty minutes to cool off. For us to realize that occasional arguments are good for us. They serve as affirmation enough that we aren't floating around in some bubble of perfection. That we aren't untouchable. They remind us that we're human. That we can experience lows and bask in the highs. That we can feel. Most importantly, that we'll just… carry on.

Like children might after a nasty fall, we recognize the pain, wipe the dirt away, and press forward.

It was especially chaotic when we decided to adopt Eddie. Actually, when Santana decided. I was hesitant as absolute hell, imagining every possible way that we would fail. There were so many hows, whats, and whys that terrified me. But there was also this spark in Santana's eye—like that night at the river—that restored my belief in things to come. Eventually, it started sounding like the right thing to do.

So we went through the process, doing everything that needed to be done. Choosing the last name wasn't a lengthy endeavor. In fact, our conversation went something like this:

_Me: "Why does it have to be Lopez-Pierce? He's already gotten so used to my last name. No sense in giving the kid an identity complex."_

_ Santana (in your pathetic excuse for an Eddie Murphy voice): "Because I do half the work; I get half the booty."_

Needless to say, Eddie now shares part of Santana's last name, but doesn't seem to be complaining.

I should probably be wrapping this up and heading home. There are still so many boxes to pack. We've finally saved up enough money for a bigger apartment and move in tomorrow. A two-bedroom right next to Carey. Eddie's excited about having his own room. Santana's just happy that ours will be bigger.

I'll admit, there are days that I worry. Days that I'll see my mother's ghost floating around Lima. Or when we go to Carey's for Sunday dinner and the sadness kicks in. The idea that Eddie will never get to know Bernadette. Not like we did, at least. Or if our balancing classes at the community college and work leaves proper time for the three of us? Are we not spending enough time together? Will Eddie feel neglected like we did as children?

Santana's always there to comfort me. To reassure me of our okayness with a kiss or a hug or just holding me for a little while. Words can never express how grateful I am for that.

Which is why, when she returns home tomorrow on her birthday, I'll pull out this Crayon box. She'll peek inside and retrieve a piece of jewelry that's suited specifically to her style. A simple ring with the words _I'm forever yours, faithfully_ inscribed on the inside band. Eddie helped me pick it out. I mean, it's not an engagement ring or anything (though I do plan on proposing someday); it's more of a "You're Never Getting Rid of Me" memorandum. Charming, right?

Hopefully, she'll smile. Hopefully, she'll think back to the past fourteen months, and the fourteen before that. Maybe, just maybe, she'll get the feeling I do when I come out here. When I watch these men and their families. Maybe she'll realize that things are enough. That our lives don't have to sing out, and they most certainly don't. Instead, there's something to be said for us whisperers. And if she's lucky, she'll realize the most important thing of all: sometimes, enough is all you need.

Tomorrow, the loves of my life come home. Tomorrow, a new day comes along for us to grow within each other. Fortunately, I feel that after tomorrow, nothing will ever be the same.

* * *

**All right, guys. Where do I begin? Firstly, I'd like to thank each and every one of you. It's meant the world to me, having this piece. Far more than I ever believed it would.**

**I know this is a late update. Part of me wanted to wrap this up perfectly; another part didn't want this to end. Both are impossible tasks, and are the reasons for this delayed update. I do apologize.**

**Truthfully, I won't be able to say much more without bursting into a fit of tears. To those of you who consistently reviewed (I would name you individually, but that wouldn't be fair), I am eternally grateful. In the beginning, I didn't think I'd care about the reviews. But once you begin to realize that something means as much to others as it does to you, then you learn to really appreciate those others and their opinions.**

**Ernest Hemingway once said, "Go all the way with it. Do not back off. For once, go all the goddamn way with what matters." You guys stuck around until the end, and I tried my best to not back off. I'd say that's good enough for me.**


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